


A Spell Is Worth A Thousand Words

by shireteapot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Depression, Exchangelock AU Exchange 2014, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Hogwarts, Homophobia, M/M, Potter!Lock, Quidditch, also trigger for alcoholism, and a little bit of violence but nothing graphic, and bullying, and just a dash of murder, and some minor cruciatus toture later on, because, but there's a happy ending, exchangelock, expecto patronum, the boys go through a lot to be together, they're fighting with wands, trigger warnings for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireteapot/pseuds/shireteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dungeon door opens and closes with a loud bang, and their professor enters in a swirl of black to start the lesson. John listens to the monotonous drawl for maybe three minutes before he turns back to Sherlock, and whispers, “That wasn't what I was going to say, y'know.” Slowly, Sherlock's expression clears. His shoulders relax and he looks at John with those all-seeing eyes and asks,</p><p>“It wasn't?”</p><p>“Of course not.”</p><p>“Oh.” A pause, hesitating. He's not sure he really wants to know, but curiosity gets the better of him. “What were you going to say?” John smiles at him, gently.</p><p>Sherlock and John meet each other on their first day at Hogwarts. What ensues is a lifelong relationship of friendship, love, adventure, and healing the wounds that they have both struggled with all their lives.</p><p>This was written for the Exchangelock AU Exchange 2014, for beargirl1393. I hope this is the sort of thing you were looking for, lovely!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study In Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beargirl1393](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beargirl1393/gifts).



> I'll be posting a chapter a day until it's done, just to give me a chance to work the final kinks out!

He can't stop staring. The cavernous ceilings, the magnificent walls and the knights of carven stone that rested within them, standing guard over the nervous crowd of murmuring first years – this is like nothing he has ever seen before. John Watson, aged eleven, is more astounded than he has ever been in his short life, though not as much as he will often be in later years, when he finally gets a taste of the adventure he craves. But he doesn't know that yet.

 

For now he is just a child, standing in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and hoping that maybe, finally, he might have found the home he's always wanted.

 

“John! Hey, John!” He turns, face breaking into an easy smile when he sees who it is. Mike Stamford is a chubby little boy with glasses and intelligent eyes, as cheerful as an eleven-year-old could ever be. Another muggleborn, they'd ended up sharing a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. They'd also shared the packed lunch Mike's mother had made him. John had none. Now Mike carefully nudges his way through the crowd of children waiting outside the Great Hall, and he's not alone. With him his another boy, trailing along behind him, looking extremely pained. As though he'd rather be anywhere else than caught in this rabble of fellow students. John pushes his hands into the pockets of his robes.

“Hey Mike. Making friends already?” Mike practically beams. The other boy scowls, and looks away.

“John, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

'Sherlock' is very thin and very pale, small for his age, with a thick mop of dark curls that falls over his forehead and eyes the colour of melting ice. He scowls again when he sees John looking, and a light blush rises high on his cheeks. John grins. He holds out his hand the way gentlemen do on the telly. “Hi, Sherlock. My name's John. Nice to meet you.” Sherlock ignores his hand, instead settling for raking those eyes up and down John's body, taking him in. John lowers his hand after a moment, and shoots Mike a sidelong glance. Mike gently elbows Sherlock in the ribs.

“Go on,” he urges excitedly. “Show John the trick you did on me, go on!” It might just be the flickering torchlight, but John swears Sherlock winces. But then he straightens up and lifts his chin, and looks John straight in the eye as he says,

“Youngest of two siblings, from a financially unstable family with one cat, a short-haired tabby I believe. You'll be a Gryffindor.” Finished, Sherlock falls silent and drops his gaze to the floor again. John stares at him. Mike glances between them both and practically vibrates with joy. Just as John is about to reply, the tapping of Professor McGonagall's shoes announce her return.

 

XxX

 

Their names are called in alphabetical order, which means Sherlock is first up from their trio. He looks only at his shoes as he climbs up onto the stool, feet dangling off the floor. The sorting hat fidgets on top of his unruly hair for a long time, deliberating, muttering things that John can't hear but which make the boy's face contort in a frown. Sherlock whispers something back. Whatever it is, it makes the sorting hat dissolve into laughter, roaring so loudly that it nearly falls off his head, before giving him a half-hearted slap of its tassels and proclaiming him a Ravenclaw.

 

By the time Sherlock sits down with the other Ravenclaws, John is smiling so wide his face hurts.

 

After Sherlock is a shy little girl who stammers her way through, and a boy about John's height with dark brown hair and mischief written all over his face. They go to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor respectively.

 

The sorting hat is peculiarly tight-lipped with one boy, saying nothing except to bark out, “Slytherin!” The boy grins, dark hair still perfectly combed as he struts to a cheering table at the far end of the room. He has the eyes of a dead thing. John should know.

 

Mike, still grinning, becomes a Hufflepuff, and then it's John's turn. His name is called, one of only three children left, and he squares his small shoulders and strides up to the stool with the confident air of a soldier reporting for duty. Sherlock is right: no sooner is the sorting hat placed on John's sandy-blonde head than it shrieks, “Gryffindor!”, and a table under banners of gold and red erupts in applause. His whole body sags with relief. Part of him had been terrified that the hat would frown, would hum and grumble and declare that there's been some kind of mistake, and would someone escort this useless muggle child out of here please? But no. He is a Gryffindor. He belongs.

 

John takes a seat next to the brunette boy from before, who introduces himself Greg, but John is only half-listening. His gaze is fixed on Sherlock at the Ravenclaw table, and the way the rest of the students talk around him, as though he is not there.

 

XxX

 

Late that night, when he can't sleep and Greg has drifted off halfway through a sentence, John lies in his new four-poster bed and wonders about the other things that Sherlock said. How did he know about Harry? How did he know about home, and Tiger the senior tabby? He makes up his mind to ask one day.

 

Across the castle, high in the turret that houses the Ravenclaw dormitories, Sherlock hugs his bony knees to his chest. He hasn't even been here for twenty-four hours and it's already starting: Sebastian, a pureblood boy from a family who make their fortune in banking, had scoffed at his long words and asked why he was so scrawny. Another boy called Wiggins had told him to shut up. Sebastian found that hilarious, though he did fall quiet and go to bed. Wiggins' real name is Billy. He has a newt in a cage on his bedside table. His muggle father is a chemist. Sebastian snores in the bed between them.

 

Sherlock curls up tighter and pulls the thick duvet over his head, and thinks of John Watson's soft blue eyes and sandy hair.

 

XxX

 

The lessons are dreadful. He'd been looking forward to finally doing some proper learning, to having all the knowledge of the magical world at his feet. But Sherlock soon finds out that this won't be the case, three days later in his first Charms lesson. Professor Flitwick wants them to practice the most mind-numbing spell in the entire universe: _wingardium leviosa_. Sherlock, having abandoned his fellow Ravenclaws in favour of hiding amongst the Slytherins at the back, feels his brain begin to rot. It's a simple charm, so easy. _Swish and flick_. He's been wandlessly levitating his toys since he was old enough to speak.

 

Apparently, however, the rest of the class hasn't. His feather hovers perfectly in the air, delicately suspended over the heads of frustrated children who cannot get their own to lift. Sebastian, he notes with a smug smile, is particularly struggling.

 

A hand on his shoulder, a slithering Irish lilt in his ear. “Jim Moriarty. _Hi_.” Sherlock breaks concentration and turns. His feather floats back down to his desk. Jim Moriarty must be given credit for his impeccable presentation; not a strand of his black hair is out of place, teeth pearly white, his brand new robes pristine. The green of his tie contrasts against his colourless skin. Sherlock doesn't know why, doesn't know what possesses him to do it – but when Jim holds out his hand, he takes it, and he deduces everything in those shark-like eyes and clenching grip. Pureblood. Psychopath. An intellectual equal. Quietly, he mumbles back,

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

When Jim smiles, he sees the world burn.

 

XxX

 

It's almost a week after the sorting before John sees Sherlock again. Potions, fifth period. John doesn't much appreciate the windowless confines of the dungeons, and rumour is their teacher has it in for Gryffindor. But as soon as he spots a familiar mop of curls taking a seat right at the back, any nerves John may have had soon disappear. He makes a beeline straight for that desk. “Hi!” John dumps his bag on the table, ignoring the confused look some of the Ravenclaws give him. “Sherlock, right? It's John. From the other day. Remember me?” Sherlock stares at him in surprise and John grins. “I'll take that as a yes,” he says as he sits down, and contemplates what to say next. “Are you liking Hogwarts? Pretty cool, isn't it?” He expects the smaller boy to smile, to nod and chat excitedly like every other first year he's talked to. Staircases that move, paintings going walkabout, Nearly Headless Nick and his compositions: it's a lot for muggleborns like John to take in.

 

But it seems Sherlock is not so enthusiastic. He purses his lips, looks away down at the desk. “Yes,” he lies. John watches him carefully and knows he isn't telling the truth. Instinct tells him not to ask why, but he wishes he knew. He hasn't seen Sherlock smile yet. He wonders what it looks like.

 

A sudden idea hits him, and with a grin John turns in his seat. “Listen, about what you said that night before the sorting...” Sherlock goes rigid, shrinking in on himself. His face crumples in his biggest scowl yet and he snaps with as much venom as he can muster,

“You don't have to say anything. I won't do it again, okay? I'm not going to tell everyone your pathetic secrets, so just leave me alone.”

 

John blinks. He's speechless.

 

The dungeon door opens and closes with a loud bang, and their professor enters in a swirl of black to start the lesson. John listens to the monotonous drawl for maybe three minutes before he turns back to Sherlock, and whispers, “That wasn't what I was going to say, y'know.” Slowly, Sherlock's expression clears. His shoulders relax and he looks at John with those all-seeing eyes and asks,

“It wasn't?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh.” A pause, hesitating. He's not sure he really wants to know, but curiosity gets the better of him. “What _were_ you going to say?” John smiles at him, gently.

“That thing you did, it was awesome. Brilliant.” A little huff of breath escapes the other boy. Sherlock stares for so long John starts to worry that he's broken him. But then something amazing happens. Sherlock grins. His eyes turn warm and his whole face lights up, and in a hushed voice he whispers,

“Really?” John smiles wider, Sherlock's joy contagious.

“Yeah! I was gonna ask, how did you kn – ”

 

A textbook slams down at the front of the classroom. “ _Watson_.” John looks up. The professor is glaring daggers at him. “I will not tolerate talking in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.” The other Gryffindors groan, but Sherlock simply arches an eyebrow.

“It's alright, sir,” he says. “If I may – perhaps you should consider purchasing a better quality wig.”

 

A deathly silence falls over the room. And then John starts to laugh, and once he starts he can't seem to stop. The professor flushes right up to the roots of his fake hair and Sherlock starts laughing too.

 

Unfortunately, their detention is not together.

 

XxX

 

Jim likes to hurt people. Not physically. Not yet. But he likes to corner Hufflepuff first years in the boys' bathroom when no one else is around. He talks to them until they cry, and then boasts about it in Charms to his little fan club of thugs. Sherlock says nothing. He tells himself it's better this way.

XxX

“There's nothing I can do, Sherlock,” Mycroft says at breakfast one morning. “The affairs of other houses are out of my hands.” The eldest Holmes sips his tea and piles toast onto his plate, seemingly intent on ignoring his younger brother until he goes away. Sherlock pouts.

“But you're a prefect!”

“For Slytherin.”

“But...but Mycroft – ”

“Enough.” Mycroft sets his tea down, scrutinises him over laced fingers. “I'll only be at Hogwarts for two more years, Sherlock. You need to learn how to handle Sebastian Wilkes on your own. Your shoes were returned to you in the end, were they not?”

“Yes, but – ” Mycroft holds up a hand.

“But nothing. If you're capable of getting yourself into trouble with that muggleborn Watson boy, then you're perfectly able to get yourself out of it.”

 

XxX

John is on his way back from the library when he comes across Sherlock, sitting on a stone bench with his head tilted back and pinching the bridge of his nose. Blood is drying on his chin, stark against the white of his face. John drops his books. “Sherlock! Are you alright?” He rushes over before he even knows what he's doing and pulls Sherlock's hands away, to see how bad the damage is. Sherlock sits up with a surprised murmur of,

“John?” Fresh blood immediately begins to gush. “Oh...”

“Quick, lean back.” John gently manoeuvres Sherlock's head until the bleeding stops again. Then he continues. “What _happened_? Did someone do this to you?” Underneath all the blood, Sherlock's skin goes even paler. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says thickly. John frowns.

“Sherlock, you can trust me. Tell me, please.” There's something in the earnestness of John's words, in the honesty of his concern. It strikes a chord deep within Sherlock that reminds him of home. “ _Sherlock_...” He swallows, and mumbles reluctantly.

 

“Sebastian Wilkes.” John's frown deepens.

“He's a Ravenclaw, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“You're the one whose shoes he wanted to throw in the Great Lake. Billy Wiggins got them back for you.”

“Yes.” John's blue eyes are very dark. Sherlock's never seen him angry before. “I don't want to tell a teacher. It'll just make it worse.” John gives a tight, but firm nod.

“Was there a reason why he hit you?” he asks, voice low. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches.

“I told him his father is having an affair and that his family will be bankrupt within the next decade.”

 

They laugh all the way to the hospital wing.

 

XxX

 

The next day, Jim beckons Sherlock over to the Slytherin table at breakfast and makes a proposal. “I can take care of Wilkes for you,” he offers in his soft tones. “I know what happened last night. I can make it all go away. _But_ , before I do...” There is a cruelty in Moriarty's eyes, a hint of the devil he will grow up to be. Sherlock's brow furrows, squished between two third year brutes.

“What do you want in return?”

 

Jim smiles, shows his teeth.

 

XxX

 

Sherlock doesn't go home for the Christmas holidays. He's never particularly enjoyed the boring festivities that Mummy and Daddy insist upon each year, and besides, Mycroft is staying, too. Strangely enough, John has also stayed behind – Sherlock passes him in the corridor once or twice, and they exchange the customary wave and smile of casual acquaintances. Sherlock wonders why the boy hasn't gone back to London.

 

Two days before Christmas, Sherlock returns to the boys' dormitory to find that he is no longer the sole occupant: in the middle of his bed sits a large, brass cage, partially covered with a satin sheet. Propped up against it is a card, on which is written in elegant calligraphy, _Mother and Father wish you a Merry Christmas. Do them a kindness and write regularly. MH._

Sherlock takes a moment to scowl at his brother's words, before sliding the satin cover off. The big yellow eyes of a dark brown tawny owl blink back at him.

 

Sherlock exhales involuntarily. He's beautiful.

 

He slips his fingers through the bars of the cage and strokes the owl’s feathers reverently, amazed at how soft they are, at how any creature could possibly be so magnificent. He’ll need a name. An important name for an important bird, one befitting his strength and intelligence, one that captures the awe Sherlock feels to look at him. Something noble. Something legendary.

 

 _Redbeard_.

 

XxX

 

Mike Stamford isn't smiling anymore.

 

His chubby cheeks are flushed and wet, his frightened eyes watery and sore. He's shaking head to toe as he presses himself into the corner of the hallway. Sherlock looks at him and swallows, hard. When Jim asked him, when he'd agreed to the Slytherin's offer to 'take care' of Sebastian Wilkes...this wasn't what he thought he'd have to do in return. A burly boy by the name of Moran steps forward and seizes Mike by the collar of his shirt, thrusting him forward; Mike yelps and stumbles. He catches himself before he can land face-first at Sherlock's feet.

 

From across the corridor comes a high, slinking voice. “He's all yours, Sherlock,” Jim announces, lounging against the far wall. His gleeful expression is made all the more disturbing by the cold, cruel gleam in his black eyes. “Go on. Let’s see, Sherly, if you truly are like brother dearest.” Sherlock lifts his chin and tightens his grip on his wand, forcing himself not to wince at the whimpering mess of a boy in front of him.

“What do you normally do?” he asks. The words sound emotionless even to his own ears. Distant. Detached. He tells himself that it has to be this way: if he doesn't do this, if he fails Jim's test, Sebastian will not stop. He'll get worse, and Jim will be only too pleased to join him in making Sherlock's life an unimaginable misery. It will never end.

 

Jim shrugs, sleek hair shining in the flickering torchlight. “I prefer not to get my hands dirty, myself,” he replies. “But Moran does whatever takes his fancy. He's _awfully_ good at it, isn't he Mike?” Mike sniffles, staring down at his feet. Moran leers at Sherlock from the shadows. The brute is obviously pleased with Jim's compliment. Disgusted, Sherlock returns his gaze to the quivering Hufflepuff. There's a variety of things that he could do to Mike. An itching spell, perhaps, or a curly pink tail and trotters to match the boy's unfortunate nickname. He could freeze Mike stiff as a board for hours on end, or have every word he speaks come out in backwards Latin. None of these would be particularly painful experiences, nor would they be permanent – but Sherlock has known for some time now that physical pain doesn't please Jim half as much as mental torture. No, what Jim loves is emotional trauma, slick and subtle and everlasting.

 

Sherlock could do that, too. After all, he wouldn't be the first Holmes to go bad; what's the point in being called _Freak_ if you don't live up to the title? Mummy and Daddy can pretend all they like, but it won't change the fact that they loved and raised a monster. One more disgraced child wouldn't make a difference.

 

But as soon as Sherlock starts to raise his wand, he sees him. Sandy blonde hair, big blue eyes, easy grin. John Watson, who hadn't been put off by his cutting remarks, who wasn't humiliated by his personal deductions. _Awesome_ , he'd said. _Brilliant_. John, landed in detention for him. John, an arm draped under Sherlock's shoulders as he guided him to the hospital wing.

 

Sherlock falters. It _would_ make a difference to John. Mike has been nothing but kind to him since they met – John would be repulsed if he found out that Sherlock had done something like this to the poor boy. And just like that, _Sherlock_ is disgusted with himself for even considering raising his wand against Mike Stamford. He slips his wand into the pocket of his robes, strides forward, takes the boy by the wrist and, knowing that he is about to make the worst enemy he could possibly make, Sherlock walks away without a word.

 

He can feel Jim’s dead eyes on him until he and Mike turn the corner.

 

XxX

 

The bullying does not stop. Sebastian continues to torment him, and – under Jim's instruction, no doubt – the Slytherins begin to inflict their own insults. Sherlock ignores them. He has been ridiculed and despised by other children his entire life, and there's no reason why this should bother him any more. He does not go to Mycroft again. He doesn't tell Mummy and Daddy in his letters. It'll only make them worry and there's no need for it, not when he has better things to write about now.

 

XxX

Sherlock doesn't always attend mealtimes, but when he does he sits with John. Mike is even warmer toward Sherlock since Jim's failed test, and Greg seems to take a shine to him. Molly blushes profusely whenever he appears. He meets Janine, a friend of Billy Wiggins and a fellow Ravenclaw, who beats Sebastian about the head with her broomstick on no less than three separate occasions. She doesn't take kindly to anyone who so much as looks at Sherlock the wrong way. He sends Redbeard home with stories and anecdotes from the little group, the kind of silly, ordinary thing his parents will appreciate. Still, he's careful to limit the amount of time he spends with them. The school year is almost over: come September they may change their minds about desiring his company. People always do.

 

XxX

 

Summer has arrived.

 

Firmly ignoring the hustle and bustle of other students saying their goodbyes on the platform, Sherlock stands by as a porter loads his heavy trunk onto the train for him. Redbeard hoots softly from his cage on the luggage trolley. Sherlock sympathizes with him completely: between the agonising boredom that awaits him at home, and the constant teasing that he has endured here, it's hard to tell which is the lesser of two evils. Caught between a rock and a hard place, as the muggles say. The sound of approaching footsteps goes unnoticed, until their owner calls his name. “Hey, Sherlock!” He turns to find John approaching, smiling widely. The boy's already changed out of his robes. His jeans are old and tatty, full of holes, and his t-shirt is no better, being several sizes too large. Hand-me-downs from his brother, no doubt. Clearly as little as the Watsons can afford.

 

But if John realises at all that Sherlock is less than impressed by his appearance, he doesn't show it; pushing his hands into his pockets, John says cheerfully, “Can't believe first year's over already, right?” Sherlock shrugs. It's not a big deal. They'll be back in just a few short months. John carries on despite the lack of reply. “Bet you must be excited to go home. Have a break from all the kids who think you're a weirdo.” Sherlock's lips press into a thin line, perceiving this as an insult. “

And I suppose you exclude yourself from that group, do you?” he snaps back, in tones dripping with sarcasm. “Well John Watson, perhaps you need to question the accuracy of your judgement, as I'm sure your dead mother will agree that freaks don't make good company for boring, ordinary little boys – ” Sherlock stops talking abruptly. Not because he's run out of air, though his breath _is_ coming a bit faster than usual, but because of the look on John's face.

 

John is not frowning. He is not smiling. His expression is soft and thoughtful, and he's slipped his fingers through the bars of Redbeard's cage to stroke him. The owl pecks affectionately at his fingertips. Sherlock watches, utterly confused. After a long, intense moment of silence, he asks, “What are you doing?” John allows Redbeard one last nibble before pulling away, and turning to Sherlock. The corner of his mouth lifts a fraction.

“Greg, Molly, Mike and me – we're sharing a compartment. D'you wanna sit with us?” Sherlock simply stares at him.

“What?” John raises an eyebrow.

“You don't have to, I just thought, y'know...”

“No, I – ” Sherlock inhales. “Are you sure?” John’s face breaks out into a grin.

“Of course,” he says. “What are friends for?”

 

Sherlock blinks, and says nothing.

 

He’s never had a friend before.


	2. Pick Your Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'll have to go today, Sherlock says. This afternoon, as soon as the lunch hour is over. Any further delay and the crime scene will be contaminated beyond all use. When John asks why he didn't just go first thing this morning, Sherlock doesn't answer. Instead he sighs, and ushers John out of the Great Hall and in the direction of the Gryffindor dormitories to dispose of his books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've yet to check this through for mistakes, so I apologise for any you may find! But it's incredibly late and night and I'll be coming back to edit in the morning, so I promise they'll all be fixed.
> 
> Also, I know I'm taking some little liberties with the classes, timeline etc. Ssh, humour me!

Sherlock and Mycroft do not sit together on the Hogwarts Express. It's an unspoken rule between them; Mycroft sits only with Anthea and their upper-class Slytherin housemates, students whose parents work in the Ministry or hold positions of power in the muggle government. Sherlock is a Ravenclaw and not, Mycroft is quick to remind him, a person of any particular importance.

 

Sherlock supposes he could find John and Greg easily enough, share a compartment with them - but not today. Today, he needs to be on his own. He has work to do.

 

He finds an empty compartment and closes the door, glaring vehemently at anyone who attempts to open it. Each student takes the hint, and moves along to sit elsewhere. Sherlock pulls a folder out of his bag. Kneeling in the middle of the floor, he begins to arrange clippings and sheaves of paper, reconstructing the case he's been working on all summer. From the top of the pile blares a headline from The Daily Prophet:

 

_HOGSMEADE TRAGEDY: AURORS BAFFLED BY SERIAL SUICIDES_

 

XxX

 

Sherlock is sent out of a lesson for the first time that year. When it happens, he's less concerned with the (rather pointless) new form of punishment, and more bothered about it being a terrible waste of his time. Why on earth should he sit through two hours of history of magic when there's far more important work to be doing? He expects Binns will want to put him in detention too, and probably take some points from Ravenclaw while he's at it. He huffs and leans back against the wall, sulking; he supposes he'll just have to try and work from within his mind vault for now.

 

This is where Sherlock has wandered off to when John spots him, moving along the corridor while on his way to the boys' bathroom. It's also where he's abruptly jerked back from, when John says his name twice and has to resort to given him a little shake. Startled, Sherlock turns to him with wide silver eyes. “Oh.” He relaxes slightly when he realises who it is, and clears his throat. “Hello, John.” John grins.

“Away with the fairies?” Sherlock can't quite stop brow from creasing – he's not used to being joked with, though there's more than enough evidence so far to suggest that John means no harm by his remarks. In a voice a little tighter than intended, he replies,

“I was working.” John is unfazed. He tilts his head and surveys Sherlock with a look of genuine curiosity.

“Working? In your head?”

“Yes.”

“What on?” Briefly, Sherlock considers lying. It's what he'd do if anyone else asked: reassure the masses that 'working' equated to being lost in one of their silly little daydreams, imagining himself winning the Quidditch World Cup and other things of that ilk. No need to give them more reason to think he's a freak.

 

But John – John is different. He attributes qualities to Sherlock that are so far above his deserving, it's almost unimaginable. _Brilliant_. _Awesome_.

 

There is something about this boy, with his soft hair and warm eyes. Sherlock is powerless to deny him anything.

 

Squaring his bony shoulders – Mycroft has always maintained that good posture is key to being taken seriously – Sherlock lifts his chin and answers, matter-of-factly, “On a case.”

“A case? You mean like a detective?” Sherlock nods, somewhat smugly.

“Yes,” he says, “exactly.” John's eyes light up.

“Oh, wow!” he exclaims, just a touch too loudly, and immediately looks around to check that they're still alone. John lowers his voice to a more appropriate volume, leaning in closer. “Can I help?” he asks. His blue eyes are hopeful. “Well, I mean I know I can't _help_ , I'm useless, but can I tag along? When you do your...your thing...”

“The science of deduction.”

“Yeah, that! I could, well maybe I could take notes for you, I mean, that is...” John looks away, suddenly sheepish. “I don't want to get in your way.”

 

For a long moment, Sherlock studies him carefully. They haven't seen each other since before the holidays: the case presented itself on the train back to Hogwarts, and for the last few weeks Sherlock has been too busy working on it (in the abysmal amount of time he gets) to socialise with his newfound group of 'friends'. Now, watching John fumble with his words in an extremely uncharacteristic manner, it dawns on Sherlock that he may have actually missed the boy's company. Only a little bit of course, and very deep down at that. He doesn't have time for trivial social relationships, or any other relationships for that matter. But still...John isn't quite as stupid as all the others. He might prove himself to be an asset. “You can help,” Sherlock allows slowly. He does his best to sound reluctant, as though bestowing upon John a rare and important gift. “But you must not tell anyone.” Grinning, John shakes his head vigorously.

“I won't, I promise!” Sherlock nods approvingly.  


“Good. Don't ask when. I'll come to you when I need you.”

 

XxX

 

The vault is an exact replica of a memory from his childhood.

 

Relations on either side of the family are thin on the ground. Daddy has only an estranged sister, and Mummy's brother and sister are both childless and reclusive despite their considerable wealth. Mummy's parents, Grandfather and Grandmother, are the only family they see often, and even these visits can be tense and uncomfortable; Grandfather had objected outright to their marriage, Daddy being of a poor and unremarkable background. It was Grandmother who halted their disownment, under the stipulation that Daddy take Mummy's name and become a Holmes.

 

Sherlock and Mycroft's school holidays had occasionally involved being shipped off to Switzerland to spend a week with their grandparents. This involved constant scrutiny of Sherlock's 'intolerably bad' habits, much preening of and fussing over Mycroft, and the traditional tour of the family vault. Until now, the Holmeses had always been a prestigious family of pureblood Slytherins. In their grandparents' eyes, power and wealth were the only forms of success.

 

This is where Sherlock goes now, lying wide awake in bed among his sleeping fellow Ravenclaws. His mind vault is small but well-lit, three solid walls of dozens of locked drawers, each containing information relevant to an individual subject. It's nowhere near as elaborate or as large as Mycroft's memory castle, but it functions. Tonight, Sherlock crosses to the farthest wall, and slips the blank placard from the front of a box at eye-level. He writes two words in black ink he writes in his impeccable, flawless handwriting:

 

_J_ _ohn Watson_.

 

He replaces the placard.

 

XxX

 

Across the castle, John's sleep is restless. In his dreams he sees Harry, crying quietly in the kitchen corner, clutching ice to her blackened eye. His father screams, his mother sobs and dies and disappears, and John hides his bruises under heavy jeans and over-sized jumpers. Eternally in his peripheral vision are dark curls and piercing eyes.

 

XxX

 

Sherlock comes to him in the middle of the night, three days later.

 

The Game is _on_.

 

XxX

 

“Remind me again why you need me for this?” John shifts his weight carefully, gasping the words out in a whisper. Sherlock balances precariously on his shoulders; the Ravenclaw's thin frame is impossibly light, but John's arms are starting to cramp from holding onto him so tightly.

“Shut up and let me concentrate,” Sherlock hisses back. Truthfully, he doesn't _need_ John's help. He knows several summoning spells that he could use to retrieve the particular book he's looking for, and his midnight trip to the restricted section of the library is far more likely to go wrong now than if he was acting alone. But John had looked so hopeful and so excited, the offer had tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth before he could stop it. Somehow, the Gryffindor is growing on him.

“Hurry _up_.”

“Ah – here we are!” Sherlock's fingers close around the spine of a thick, dusty tome. If his suspicions about the new driver of the Hogwarts Express are correct, then the proof should be somewhere in this book. Sherlock carefully pulls _A Layman's Guide to Poisoning The Incompetent_ from the shelf. It turns out to be much, much heavier than anticipated.

 

He clutches the book to his chest, overbalances, John wobbles, slips, and with an almighty thud they both collapse in a heap on the library floor. The noise is loud enough to wake the dead - or worse, Filch. John is still blinking away his surprise when long fingers close around his wrist, and tug him to his feet with unexpected strength. “Come _on_ John!” Sherlock urges, pulling at him as he tries to dust himself down. The sound of approaching footsteps makes John's legs remember how to work, and even though he hardly knows the boy, even though Sherlock has hurled insults at him more times than he can count, he follows. He gives in to the tight grip Sherlock has on his sleeve and he runs after him, out of the library through a side door and through the deserted corridors, barely noticing the silencing charms Sherlock casts along the way.

 

XxX

 

The next morning, when Sherlock is making one of his infrequent appearances at lunch and sits reading at the Ravenclaw table, John slips onto the bench beside him. “Hi!” Sherlock glances up briefly from his book.

“Hello, John.” The other Ravenclaw students have given Sherlock a wide berth, as though afraid to sit within several feet of him. If John didn't know better, he'd think they believed oddity to be catching. As it is, he still lowers his voice and leans in close.

“Last night was amazing,” he whispers, grinning. “I haven't had that much fun since...well, ever.” The pressure of trying to be quiet, breaking into the library, running from Filch through the darkened castle corridors – the adrenaline rush took hours to wear off. John hadn't been able to sleep. Hadn't been able to stop smiling. He wants more of it. “Did you find what you were looking for? In the book?”

“Naturally.”

 

Sherlock taps the book in front of him. John gapes. “You're _reading it in front of everyone?”_ he hisses, still trying to whisper despite his shock. "What if you get caught?" Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs deeply.

“Oh John, do give me more credit,” he mutters back, “I charmed the cover. As far as anyone else can see, this is a copy of _The Complete Biography of Newt Scamander_.” John blinks.

“Oh,” he says. “That's...a really good idea, actually.”

“I know.”

“Who's Newt Scamander?”

“Never mind that, look – ” Sherlock pushes the book along the table so John can see, and points to a heading in gothic copperplate font. John squints to make out the word, and decides he's not even going to try and pronounce it. “ _This_ ,” Sherlock explains excitedly, talking under his breath now, “is a recipe for a very powerful potion made from clostridium botulinum, one of the deadliest poisons in the world. Virtually undetectable to muggles, let alone wizards with no regard for scientific analysis. This is our killer's weapon of choice.” Frowning, John scans the page with his eyes. The recipe looks extremely complicated.

 

“How can you be sure this is the right potion?” he asks.

“I cross-referenced all of the articles from The Daily Prophet, and every detail bore a striking to resemblance my first case.”

“Your _first_ case?”

“Two years ago. A boy named Carl Powers was murdered.” Turning away, Sherlock begins to rifle through his bag while John tries to process that information. This is not, as he had assumed, Sherlock's first attempt at this kind of detective work, and John finds that fact both impressive and terribly worrying.

“So,” he begins, at a loss for anything else to say, “what do we do now?”

“We investigate.”

“How?” Sherlock hums in satisfaction; he must have finally found what he was looking for. Turning back around, the Ravenclaw unfolds today's copy of The Daily Prophet and slaps it down in front of John.

 

_FOURTH BODY FOUND IN HOGSMEADE SUICIDE SPREE_

 

Sherlock is grinning. “We examine the crime scene, of course.”

 

XxX

 

They'll have to go today, Sherlock says. This afternoon, as soon as the lunch hour is over. Any further delay and the crime scene will be contaminated beyond all use. When John asks why he didn't just go first thing this morning, Sherlock doesn't answer. Instead he sighs, and ushers John out of the Great Hall and in the direction of the Gryffindor dormitories to dispose of his books.

 

John has no idea how Sherlock plans to get them out of the castle and into Hogsmeade. There's no way that they won't be spotted. But he supposes that if anyone can sneak them out unnoticed, it'll be Sherlock Holmes, and he agrees to meet at the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor in twenty minutes.

 

Thankfully the Gryffindor common room is mostly deserted when he reaches it, save for a few lingering seventh years on free periods. John slips by without comment, and proceeds up to the boys' dormitory. He dumps his bag onto his bed and glances out the window at the grey, cloudy sky. Not for the first time, John eyes the Gryffindor scarf wound along Greg's bedpost and wishes that he had one of his own, to keep him warm now that the chilly autumn weather has set in. But the muggleborn grant had only covered his robes, basic uniform, wand and second-hand textbooks. There hadn't been any galleons or sickles left over for cauldrons or owls, let alone scarves. Not even a knut.

 

But never mind. John is no stranger to going without, and this is no different.

 

He checks for his wand in his trouser pocket and turns to leave – only to find his path blocked. “Good afternoon Mister Watson.” The girl is tall, slim, with long chocolate hair that curls past her shoulders. She wears Slytherin robes and her features are accentuated with makeup, eyes downcast as she writes furiously in a small, leather-bound book. “Please come with me.” And with that she turns on her heel and walks out of the room, her footsteps light on the stairs. John stares after for a short moment. She's pretty. Very pretty. If he were four years older, he'd ask her out. “Mister Watson!” Unsure of what else to do, and knowing that his only way out is through the common room, he follows after her.

 

The seventh years are gone, vanished away somewhere else. A fire is crackling in the grate that wasn't lit before, filling the room with unnecessary light. The girl stands off in one corner, still scribbling in her book. John hesitates at the bottom of the stairs when he sees that one of the armchairs by the fire is occupied. “Have a seat, John.” The boy's voice is soft, deceivingly so, given the layer of steel that lies beneath: a firm undertone that dares one to be so idiotic as to argue. Luckily for John, he already knows that he's an idiot.

“No, thank you,” he replies, and steps into the room. The stranger comes into clearer focus as John moves closer. Obviously the fire is intended merely for effect, because what seemed like an intimidating figure from far away is revealed to be someone far less impressive – pale skin, copper-brown hair and blue eyes, wrapped up in an immaculate Slytherin uniform with a shiny prefect badge pinned to his chest.

“Sit down,” the stranger repeats, gesturing to the other armchair. John lifts his chin defiantly.

“I don't wanna sit down.” Something flashes in the older boy's eyes, but John does not look away.

 

After a moment of consideration, the stranger speaks again. “You don't seem very afraid.”

“You don't seem very frightening.” Thin lips twist into a spectacularly unamused smile. John has faced far more fear than this boy could ever instil in him, far more violence than could be done to him here, at a school full of other children. He jerks his head in the direction of the girl and the constant scratching of her quill. “Taking notes?”

“Anthea is in constant contact with my affiliates at the Ministry of Magic.”

“ _Your?”_ The stranger's fake smile grows.

“I can assure you, Mister Watson, that my influence there is considerable. Do not be fooled by my age. Now – ” Lacing his longer fingers together, the stranger arches an eyebrow and regards John carefully. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” John feels scrutinised, torn apart and examined from the inside out. It's a feeling he's experienced from only Sherlock before. But the Gryffindor stands his ground.

 

“He's my friend,” he answers, the words coming out in a tone of which he didn't know he was capable. He didn't know he could sound so fiercely protective in just three little words. The stranger's smile is turning into a grimace.

“For how long?”

“I don't think that's any of your business,” John retorts, and now the stranger's expression collapses entirely, goes hard as stone, cold as ice.

“I think you'll find it is.”

 

For the first time in this meeting, John feels a tendril of dread unfurl in his chest. “Who are you?”

“An interested third party. If you do decide to continue this... _friendship_ with Sherlock Holmes, I'd be willing to offer you a considerable reward in exchange – ” John shakes his head.

“No.”

“Wouldn't you like to know what – ”

“I said, _no_.” John decides right then and there that he doesn't like this boy. John has been intimidated and threatened into submission his entire life, and he will not take it from a snotty Slytherin sixth year who thinks he runs the world. John opens his mouth to tell the stranger where to stick his offer, but the next words stop him dead.

 

“I could take you away from your father,” the boy says, and John goes rigid. “I could have him sent to muggle prison for life, or better yet, Azkaban. I could arrange a Dementor's kiss as easily as ordering breakfast. I'm sure you know what that entails by now.” John's breath is coming fast. His heart is pounding. The stranger continues. “I can't undo the scars you keep hidden under your older sibling's jumpers, Mister Watson, but believe me when I say I can have your father incarcerated in a matter of hours.” And then, seemingly as an afterthought, “Or dead, if you prefer.” John clenches his jaw.

“How do you know about that?” he asks in a low, strained whisper.

“It's my job to know everything,” the stranger replies, smiling again.

“Well.” John swallows, hard. “You don't know _me_. The answer's still no.” Mustering what courage he has left, John tears his eyes away from the stranger and strides toward the porthole, determined to get away. As the porthole closes behind him, a soft voice calls,

“Think about it, Mister Watson.”

 

XxX

 

John is late to their meeting. Sherlock lounges against the statue of the one-eyed witch, and rolls his eyes when he sees him coming. “It's alright John, no rush,” he says sarcastically. “It's not as though every minute counts.”

“Sorry,” John mumbles. He's flushed up to the tips of his ears, flustered and confused. “Some great big Slytherin twit cornered me in the common room.”

“And I suppose he wanted to talk to you about me?” John looks at Sherlock in surprise, finds the Ravenclaw's face to be completely bored.

“Yeah, how did you...?” Sherlock shrugs and draws out his wand.

“That would've been my brother Mycroft,” he replies nonchalantly. “He has a spectacularly bad diet and a fondness for meddling in my affairs.”

 

“Oh.” John feels his face burn hotter, with embarrassment now.

“Sorry, I didn't mean – ”

“It's alright.” Something like a smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

“'Great big twit' is putting it mildly.” John stifles a laugh, relieved, and watches as Sherlock taps his wand against the hump of the statue. “ _Dissendium._ ” There's a clunk and a rattle, and a grating sound like the moving of stone, and as the two boys watch a hole begins to appear in the witches' hump. The space seems big enough for someone small to fit through, and disappears down into darkness.

“What's that?” John asks, awestruck.

“This, John,” Sherlock replies smugly, putting his wand away, “is our way into Hogsmeade.”

 

XxX

 

The tunnel, John learns, is one of seven secret passages out of Hogwarts. Four of them are known to Filch; a fifth is now inaccessible following a cave-in, and out of the remaining two, Sherlock declares this to be the safest route. The seventh passage would take them straight to the crime scene itself, but would require sneaking across the school grounds in plain sight. They cannot afford to be caught.

 

XxX

 

Sherlock uses a confundus charm to get them out of the cellar of Honeydukes. It's a little bit strong, leaving the shopkeeper bumbling about in a daze, questioning the nature of his own existence, but John is assured that the man will make a full recovery within half an hour. By the time he comes round, Sherlock and John have long since disappeared.

 

They stay out of sight as much as possible, though there's hardly any need: serial suicides aren't good for business. The town is deserted. “In exactly fifteen minutes we will have our one and only chance at doing this right,” Sherlock says. He turns his shirt collar up against the chill and pulls his Ravenclaw scarf closer. “There will be five Aurors on duty. Four of them will temporarily abandon the crime scene to go drink at the Hog's Head, leaving one Auror on guard – ”

“Hang on, hang on – ” John takes hold of Sherlock's arm, forcing him to stop. “How can you _possibly_ know that they'll go to that pub? Or that they'll even go?” Sherlock sighs heavily.

“ _Because_ ,” he begins, shaking himself free, “the latest report from the Auror Office explicitly states that eighty-five percent of Aurors now turn to alcohol as a means of coping with their work. The Hog's Head is a notorious haunt of Aurors, most likely because of its no-questions-asked service and cheap liquor.” He raises an eyebrow. “Satisfied?” Blushing, John nods.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles. “You um...you lead the way.”

“Thank you.”

 

They walk for a little while longer before John notices that the buildings around them are becoming sparse. Sherlock is leading him out of town. “Sherlock? Uh...where exactly _is_ the crime scene?” But he doesn't get an answer, because at that moment Sherlock seizes him by the front of his robes, and jerks him backward behind the house they were passing. John yelps in surprise “Sherlock – !”

“Shut up!” Sherlock urges, slapping his hand over John's mouth. John pulls it away and hisses,

“What the _bloody hell_ – ”

“ _Aurors_.” Sure enough, the sound of voices floats toward them on the crisp air, the unmistakable grumbling of several middle-aged men, and a higher but no less raspy tone that must belong to a woman. If they'd been walking along the street, Sherlock and John would've been spotted instantly. They hide until the Aurors are out of earshot. Then they're off again.

 

When the Shrieking Shack finally looms into view, John freezes, his feet refusing to go any further. Sherlock hears him stop and turns, irritated at the delay. “What _now_ , John?” “The Shrieking Shack,” John replies in a small voice.

“You never said...you never said – ”

“Oh for God's sake.” Sherlock throws his hands up in the air. “The Shrieking Shack is _not_ haunted,” he says firmly. “The rumours of screaming and ghosts are just that, rumours.”

“But that girl...the first year – ”

“That was fourteen years ago, John. The scariest thing that awaits us is a dead body, and it's not hers.” John looks at him and retorts sarcastically,

“Well, when you put it like _that_...”

“ _John_.”

“Okay, fine.” The Gryffindor eyes the Shack warily, certain that he's about to regret this. “What's the plan?”

 

John finds out not five minutes later, when the Auror waiting in the front hall falls flat on his face. “ _Really?”_ John turns to Sherlock, incredulous. “You used _petrificus totalus_ on an _Auror?_ ” Sherlock shrugs, slipping his wand into his robes.

“It worked, didn't it?”

“But – ”

“Come _on!”_ And with that Sherlock is bounding up the stairs and disappearing out of sight. John casts one last furtive glance at the man on the floor before following after him.

 

XxX

The body is upstairs.

 

The woman lies face down in the middle of what must have once been a bedroom, now nothing more than bare floorboards and peeling wallpaper. Her pink robes are astonishingly bright against the colourless décor of the room. Light filters in through cracks in the closed shutters. A small, pink suitcase is abandoned a few feet away. “Excellent!” Sherlock exclaims, moving into the room like a whirlwind. He pulls a leather pouch seemingly out of nowhere and gets to work, squatting next to the body. John watches from the doorway. He'd expected to feel disgusted, nauseous at the very least – instead, all he feels is a slight prickling of the hair on the back of his neck. Everyone at Hogwarts knows heard about the girl who was murdered here. The first year's body was found bloody and mangled, and ever since local residents have claimed to hear her screams echoing from the house at night. It's enough to give anyone chills, not to mention the fact that he's currently standing in a room with a corpse.

 

Then again, this isn't the first dead body John's seen.

 

“I'm done,” Sherlock announces suddenly, jumping to his feet. He slips what appears to be a tiny magnifying strip into the leather pouch, rolling it back up. John stares at him incredulously.

“Already?” Sherlock glides toward him, ignoring this comment. With a jerk of his head toward the corpse, he asks,

“What do you make of the word?”

“The what?”

“The word, John, by the window. Do keep up.” John looks past his friend to the woman's body, arms outstretched by her head. Curiosity gets the better of him; he takes his first step into the room. The weak light filtering in falls across the torn nails of her right hand, and the word scratched into the floor above it. John tilts his head to read it. Five letters:

 

R-A-C-H-E

 

John's tongue darts out to lick his lip. “A note?” he suggests.

 

From the doorway, Sherlock grins. “A _name_.”

 

XxX

 

Sherlock places the Auror under a simple sleeping charm, and wipes his memory before they leave.

 

XxX

The following day, the woman's body is removed, and that evening sees John and Sherlock huddled at a table in a secluded corner of the library to review the evidence. “She worked in journalism, judging by the eye-catching and frankly alarming colour of her attire,” Sherlock explains quietly. “Not The Daily Prophet – they'd have said if she were one of their own – so muggle media, then. She was here on business, a short stay judging from the size of her suitcase. The fact that she was carrying luggage reveals she travelled by train instead of the Floo Network, and the presence of the case at the crime scene suggests she had arrived only a brief period of time before she died. No more than an hour.” Sherlock presses his fingertips together at his lips. “We know, unlike the buffoons at The Daily Prophet, that she was murdered. The question is, why kill her at the Shrieking Shack? And why take her wand?” John frowns, leaning forward.

“How do you know her wand was missing?”

 

“There was no wand at the crime scene. Obviously.”

“It could have been on her body...” John begins, but trails off as Sherlock slowly shakes his head.

“No,” the Ravenclaw replies. “She scratched the name _Rachel_ into the floor with her fingernails as she was dying. It would have taken a while. It would have hurt. Why go through that when she could use her wand to carve it magically?” Giving a short nod of understanding, John surmises,

“She didn't have her wand with her.”

“Exactly. So...” Sherlock's words are reduced to a murmur, so quiet that John has to edge closer to hear him, “...the killer must have taken it. And its holder.”

“Holder?” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively.

“The pockets on women's robes are obnoxiously small,” he says, “and we're talking about a woman who colour co-ordinated her clothes, shoes and nails. She would have had a case for her wand, no doubt one of the wand slips that are currently all the rage.”

 

John's heard of those from Molly and Janine – fitted silk sleeves to wear on the forearm, secured with a buckle at wrist and elbow. The wand can be inserted through three small pockets on the sleeve which hold it in place, ready for use at a moment's notice. The more feminine sleeves come in a range of colours, with optional lace trimming. “Let me guess, the slip will be bright pink, too?” Sherlock's mouth curves up in a smile.

“And whoever has it is our killer.” There's a sparkle in his eyes. A revelation yet to come.

“ _And?”_ John prompts.

“ _And_...” Sherlock lowers his hands, shifts his weight. He leans in until he and John are at eye-level. “I know exactly who he is.”

 

XxX

 

“We _have_ to tell the Aurors, Sherlock.” Sitting together at the back of Defence Against The Dark Arts, John and Sherlock ignore the professor's endless babble about his accomplishments in favour of their own conversation.

“Yes, yes – ” John brow creases and he touches Sherlock's arm, makes the Ravenclaw look at him.

“I mean it,” he says, blue eyes meeting silver. “We can't go after him alone. We could get killed – ” Sherlock is rolling his eyes, sighing heavily.

“Honestly John, do you take me for an idiot – ” “

_Sherlock_.” John's gaze is positively burning now, a determination there that few would dream he could possess. Deflating, Sherlock huffs.

“ _Fine_.” John releases him.

“We'll do it today,” he says. “After our last lesson, before the Aurors leave town. I'll meet you outside your Charms class, okay?” Sherlock pouts and huffs again, eyebrows knitted together, silver eyes turned to steel. All signs that he's fast approaching one of his sulks again. John finds he couldn't care less.

“I said, _fine_ ,” Sherlock mutters back and spends the rest of the lesson ignoring John's existence completely. Thinking forward to this evening, John finds he's strangely okay with that.

 

XxX

 

He knows John means well. But that doesn't change his mind.

 

XxX

Outside Charms, Sherlock feigns a sudden fit of wooziness, as though having trouble staying upright. Janine turns wide, worried brown eyes on him. “Are you alright, Sher?” she asks, pushing her curls behind her ear. “You look a bit pale.” Sherlock always looks pale, but he decides not to mention that. He also doesn't mention that he detests the nickname _Sher_.

“I'm fine,” he insists, the words coming out weak and shaky. “Just feeling a bit faint...”

“Maybe you should go to the hospital wing...” Sherlock nods reluctantly.

“I think I should...tell Flitwick for me?” He wouldn't normally bother with excuses, but John has to be delayed for as long as possible.

 

XxX

The Hogwarts Express pulls into the platform with a screech. As the passengers disembark and carry on their way to Hogsmeade, a porter approaches the driver's window. “That's everyone, Jeff,” he says. “Want us to stick around and help with the clean up?” The driver shakes his head, smiling from underneath his flatcap.

“S'alright, I got it. You lot go home for the day.”

“You sure?” Tucked into the inside pocket of his coat, a pink wand sleeve burns against him. This is his first - and last - chance to check the train from top to bottom. It won't do to let any other unwanted souvenirs slip by.

“Positive.”

 

XxX

 

Professor Sprout releases them from Herbology early, and John hurries back up to the castle to meet Sherlock. He finds the Charms classroom just in time for the door to open and students to come milling out. The Slytherins barge their way past first, before John finally spots Ravenclaw uniforms and Janine appears, talking to another girl he doesn't know. She catches sight of him and waves the other girl ahead. “Oh, hi John,” she says with an apologetic smile. “It's nice to see you, but Sherlock isn't here.” John's stomach flips.

“He's not?”

“No, he went to the hospital wing, said he – John?!”

 

John doesn't hear her call his name. He's already off and running down the corridor.

 

XxX

 

The woman in pink had drunk her tea without complaint. Hadn't even noticed the slightly bitter aftertaste, or seen the trolley lady slip a pretty little pill into the cup. Speaking of whom, the old biddy's been under the imperius curse for months now, and she's getting a bit too bumbling and worn down. He'll have to dispose of her. Get a new one.

 

Hope inspects every inch of the compartment where the woman had been sitting alone, where she drank the poison, where he stopped her and told her that, _sorry love, this is where you get off_. Oh, how she'd _cried_. Begged him, pleaded. But, orders are orders. Her name had been on the list of people the Boss wanted dispatched, so she had to die. Besides, he could always use another thousand galleons in his pocket. He drops to his knees and peers under the seat, checking for any more pink belongings that may have accidentally been left behind.

 

“ _Don't move_.”

 

Hope freezes, knows instinctively that a powerful wand and mind are trained on him. He smiles. “My, my, Mister Holmes,” he says. “That didn't take you long.”

“No. It really didn't. Now stand up.” Hope doesn't like that. Not one bit.

“I don't take orders from kids,” he growls, and Sherlock's mouth twists in a smile.

“Oh, but you do, don't you? _Stand. Up_.” He watches as the figure in front of him slowly straightens up, hands on clear display. When he turns, he reveals a lined, ageing face, and shrewd little eyes behind rimless spectacles. “Tell me,” Sherlock begins, eyeing the man's outdated clothes, “when did Jim come to you about this?” The man looks confused.

“Jim?”

“Moriarty.”

“Oh, _Moriarty_. Well...” Hope's lips curve upwards in a grin, showing his teeth.

“That would've been about the time you rejected his partnership, Mister Holmes. This was all for you.” Tightening his grip on his wand, Sherlock snorts derisively.

“And now what? I don't expect you plan to go quietly.”

“Not at all.”

“So you'll try to kill me instead.” Sherlock's voice is utterly calm, steady, unafraid. He has no use for fear.

“Oh, no.” Hope's grin widens.

 

“First,” he says, “I'm going to talk to you a little while. And then you're gonna kill yourself.”

 

XxX

John clutches at his side as he bursts out of Honeydukes, the bewildered shop owner staring after him. He hasn't stopped running since he left Janine, and no matter the pain, he can't stop now; not when Sherlock is down at the train platform outside the town, attempting to catch a serial killer on his own.

 

XxX

Sherlock holds the glass bottle between forefinger and thumb, peering at the two pills inside. One a deadly poison. The other, harmless. “I must say, Mister Moriarty will be pleased to know that you remember Carl Powers.” Hope sits across from Sherlock in the compartment, watching him carefully as he tries to decide which pill will let him live. Their wands are set aside, out of reach. A temporary truce.

“Hard to forget,” Sherlock mutters. “And when the only one of his schoolmates to have magical blood also grows up to be a psychopath surrounded by copycat crimes...it really makes connecting the dots much easier.”

“I'll bet. Have you chosen, Mister Holmes?”

“I have.” Sherlock unscrews the bottle cap, and retrieves his selected pill. He passes the bottle to Hope, who tips the other pill into the palm of his hand.

“Think you can beat me?” he asks.

“Most certainly.” Hope smiles.

“Off we pop,” he says, and together they start lifting the pills.

 

And then there's a flash of red, and Hope crumples and folds over like a wet paper towel, sliding to the ground. The pill skitters across the floor and out of sight. When Sherlock turns, John is standing at the compartment door, sweaty and breathless. “You stunned him.” Panting, John nods.

“Yeah.”

“He's _unconscious_.” John nods again.

“Yeah.”

“Why on _earth_ did you do that?” When John looks at him, Sherlock wears an expression of deep insult. Shrugging, the Gryffindor feels his face threaten to break into a smile.

“Cause you're an idiot.”

 

XxX

The smack of a newspaper onto his plate makes John jump. From the front of The Daily Prophet, Hope grimaces back at him, blinking in the light of flashbulbs as he clutches his mugshot card to his chest. “He won't be getting out.” Sherlock slides gracefully onto the bench beside John. “He'll rot in Azkaban, though they didn't press for the Dementor's Kiss.” John picks the paper up off his (thankfully plain) toast, and sets it aside to read as he reaches for the jam.

 

_AUROR COURAGE: SERIAL KILLER CAUGHT AT LAST_

 

The corner of John's mouth turns downward, and he hums. “So they've taken all the credit, then,” he says.

“Of course,” Sherlock replies.

“Still. I was the one who figured it out.” He tears a corner off John's toast, chews in silence. John rolls his eyes but doesn't comment. Sherlock barely eats as it is. Spreading jam on his toast, John raises an eyebrow.

“There are still some things I don't understand, though.” Swallowing, Sherlock glances to him.

“What's that?”

“Rachel,” John says. “The name. Why scratch it into the floor? And why did the woman walk all that way to die at the Shrieking Shack.”

“Her daughter.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock wipes his fingers on John's napkin and explains, matter-of-factly,

“Rachel Wilson, the first year girl who was murdered there. Our victim's name was Jennifer Wilson. Rachel's mother.” John stares at him as comprehension dawns.

“She wanted to be close to her daughter when she died,” he murmurs, and his chest feels suddenly tight. Sherlock, however, is unaffected.

 

“And yet she still died,” he says, sounding almost condescending. “Sentiment, John. Humanity's downfall.”


	3. Expecto Patronum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is woken from a dreamless sleep by an insistent shaking at his shoulder. It's Sherlock, curly hair falling into his eyes, milky skin glowing in the thin shafts of moonlight. He's fully-dressed. 
> 
>  
> 
> Tonight's the night.

Defence Against the Dark Arts is one of Sherlock's few true pleasures. It's also one of the meagre number of classes that he shares with John, and that doesn't drive him half to tears with boredom. As a matter of tradition, every first third-year class centres on basic Boggart protection. Their latest Professor (Sherlock has already deleted his name) has wheeled an antique cupboard into the centre of the room. Every now and again it shakes and rattles, held shut by a muggle padlock, and many of the students shrink away. Sherlock doesn't: he's too excited.

 

His first encounter with a Boggart came at the age of seven, when one settled in the drawer of Grandfather's Edwardian writing desk. Grandmother has removed it too quickly for it to take the shape of Sherlock's ‘greatest fear’ – a term he uses very loosely and with much condescension. Fear is nothing but a primal instinct left over from man's less-than-flattering Neanderthal days, now reduced to one of humanity's more exasperating emotions. Fear, like love, is human error. Fear is weakness, and he has none.

 

The Professor asks them to pair up and take out their wands. John and Sherlock gravitate toward each other instantly, joining the back of the queue. John looks nervous, but he's grinning.

 

The first few pairs are incredibly dull. Janine, as it turns out, is terrified of snakes. For Billy it's piranha and for Molly it's spiders. The Boggart begins to show promise when it comes to Greg, until Sherlock realises that the form it's taking isn't actually that of a rabid werewolf, but merely of a small, over-agitated dog. Disappointing.

 

There is a point to being in pairs. This Boggart is particularly strong, warns the Professor, and as such it's only to be expected that some of them may be overwhelmed. If Person A should freeze up, Person B should step forward to transform the Boggart for them, and vice versa. _It's all about team work, class. Friendship is a necessity._ Sherlock snorts. John is his friend, and he'd been of a small amount of help with the case last year; but calling him a necessity would be stretching it too far.

 

Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock sees John shoot him a questioning look, but there's no time to explain – the pair in front of them retreat, shaken, to the back of the queue, and he and John step forward to face the googly-eyed helium balloon that used to be a ten-foot anaconda. Sherlock is Person A; he wonders what entirely unoriginal form the Boggart will take for him, and raises his wand.

 

The Boggart immediately begins to change. The snake balloon's body twists and thickens into a torso, slowly sprouting limbs, taking it's time with him. Sherlock watches his own figure take shape, long, lean arms and legs, a thin, pale face beneath a shock of dark hair, and expects to see himself as a failure, clothed in rags and no doubt unbearably slow, unresponsive, as though lobotomised. But then it becomes apparent that the robes this figure wears are a rich emerald in colour, velvet and silk, surely the best _Madam Malkin’s_ has to offer. The limbs are still growing. Longer, leaner, 'til they're too spidery and unnatural-looking. The curls are too long. The hands too white. And then the being's facial features are forming, and Sherlock cannot breathe.

 

It is not himself.

 

This figure is one he once knew well, one he can still remember. Those silver eyes were bright once, intelligent and alive with excitement. Now they are dead, cold and lifeless, and Sherlock looks into the face of the man he used to admire and watches the blood run down that pointed chin, remembers where it came from, remembers the screams that drifted up from the village that night, shrill and chilling on the air. He had seen it all. “ _R...Riddikulus!”_ Sherlock rasps, unable to look away from the advancing figure, unable to resist those eyes. “ _Riddikulus!”_ He's not thinking of anything funny. He's barely thinking of the present at all, save for the icy, overwhelming terror that fills his stomach and his lungs. “ _Ri...Riddik....”_

 

_You'll be one of the greats, brother mine. We're the same, you and I_.

 

And then, all at once, it's over.

 

John surges forward, leaps in front of Sherlock like an action hero in one of those god-awful muggle films he so adores. He draws his wand and the Boggart, presented with a new target, immediately begins to change. Limbs shorten and grow thicker, more muscular and tan. Ebon curls turn to thin, receding ash-blonde hair, flat atop a flushed, round face. A face startlingly similar to John's own. John goes rigid, and there's a long, long moment where it looks as though he too has frozen up – but then the Boggart raises a clenched fist, face contorted in anger, and before it can even speak John cries, “ _Riddikulus!”_ In the blink of an eye, the phantom copy of his father becomes a wobbling, towering jack-in-the-box.

 

The Professor applauds, and a few of their classmates laugh lightly.

 

Sherlock can hear Sebastian sniggering.

 

XxX

 

“Sherlock! Hey, slow down!” Sherlock continues elbowing his way through the mass of students, resolutely deaf to John's voice calling after him. He's red to the very tips of his ears, not just with embarrassment but also with anger, with shame. _Eyes cold as steel, Mummy crying, Daddy pleading, nine-year-old Mycroft's uncontrolled magic shielding them all from harm_. John running after him. _Green light illuminating the streets, muggles screaming, houses painted with magical blood_. John tugging at the sleeve of his robes. _Let's see, Sherly, if you truly are like brother dearest_.

 

Sherlock snaps. He halts so abruptly that John runs into the back of him, bouncing off his thin frame as he whirls round. “ _What?_ Come to gloat, have you?” He regrets the words immediately, watching John's face fall, hurt by the stinging remark. He knows, really, that John would never do such a thing. Not John Watson. Gaze flickering to stare shamefully down at the floor, Sherlock mumbles, “Sorry.” He's never apologised to John before. He thinks, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, that perhaps he ought to do it more often. When Sherlock lifts his head again, the smaller boy is smiling faintly at him.

“It's alright,” John says.

“Mm.”

 

Silence.

 

Sherlock begins to feel uncomfortable. He flushes a deep, humiliating shade of pink. Clearing his throat, he begins, “So...um...” He trails off. He has no idea what to say. Thankfully, John does. Hugging his bag close to his chest, John explains,

“I was going to say, about the spell in class just now, I could...I could maybe h – _tutor_ you, if you like.” He decides against using the word 'help' at the last second. Then, seeing the look on Sherlock's face and remembering the boy's aversion to charity, John quickly ploughs on. “And you could teach me a spell in return, if you like. I mean, I could use it, you're so much smarter than me and I know you know a lot of really advanced magic, and I just thought...” He's babbling. Why is he babbling? “Maybe a levitation charm – ”

“John.”

“ – I'm so rubbish at those, I can never get _wingardium leviosa_ right – ”

“John.” Looking up, he realises that Sherlock is staring at him. He blushes. Furiously.

 

John Watson doesn't blush. Not when pretty ladies would coo over him as a little boy, nor when the girl with pigtails kissed him on the cheek in primary school. Not even when Mary Morstan from Slytherin, with her shiny hair and sweet smile, had told him that he was the cutest of all the boys in their year.

 

But here he is. Pink in the face and stammering to cover up his own idiocy. "Sorry, I just – it's just – " Sherlock cuts him off.

“It's fine. Really.” Sherlock coughs. The edge of his mouth twitches in the briefest glimpse of a smile. When he realises he's mortified, and forces his face into a schooled expression of nonchalance. “I accept your offer.” John's eyes widen.

“Really?” Sherlock nods tightly.

“Yes, well, it's true that I could probably teach you a thing or two...” But John isn't listening. He's beaming, and in his excitement he nearly drops his bag.

“Great! I mean – good, that's good.” He attempts to rein in his grin. He doesn't want to put Sherlock off.

 

The corridor around them is clearing of students. John has to get to Transfiguration. He finds he doesn't want to go. “So, we'll figure out somewhere to meet and practice, yeah?” he says, sounding far too hopeful for his own liking. Sherlock's lips twitch again.

“Yes. I'll search for an appropriate place.”

 

XxX

 

In the end, however, it's John who finds the perfect spot. He drags Sherlock up to the seventh floor corridor one evening, babbling about some accidental discovery or another. Sherlock watches him with something between exasperation and annoyance as the Gryffindor paces to and fro in front of a blank stretch of wall, one, two, three times. And Sherlock watches, dumbfounded, as a door materialises before their eyes, and he suddenly realises what this is.

 

John has found the Room of Requirement.

 

XxX

 

“You haven't asked.”

 

It's their first night of practice in the Room of Requirement. Together they've pulled the cupboard away from the wall, closer to the centre of the room, where there'll be more space. John has his wand at the ready, and he looks up at the sound of Sherlock's voice. “Asked what?” Sherlock sets his jaw. He's determined not to fail this a second time.

“About my Boggart,” he answers quietly, wand clenched tightly in his long fingers. “What it is. Who it is.” John's eyes roam over his face. Whether John is deliberately keeping his expression neutral or is genuinely unfazed by his words, Sherlock isn't quite certain. He's not sure, shaking as much as he is, that he's in the right frame of mind to tell.

“If you wanted me to know, you'd tell me,” John says, slowly and clearly. Sherlock nods. He says nothing. If John notices the trembling of Sherlock's body, he doesn't mention it. Instead, the Gryffindor asks him, “Ready?” Sherlock lies.

“Yes.”  


XxX

 

It's a disaster.

 

Sherlock freezes the moment he meets those cold, lifeless eyes, unable to move. Just like last time, he is paralysed. Tonight, he can't even begin to speak the spell.

 

When the figure is just a few yards from him, John intervenes.

 

He steps forward and, before it is halfway done taking the shape of his father, has the Boggart slipping and sliding on marbles, back into the cupboard. John slams the door shut with a flick of his wand. The only sound in the room is that of Sherlock's heavy breathing.

 

After a moment, John turns to him and says, “Let it in, Sherlock, let yourself feel it. But don't let it take control.” The Ravenclaw nods weakly. “ _Again_.”

 

Sherlock swallows, hard. Perhaps he needs John Watson more than he first thought.

 

XxX

 

For the first time, John and Sherlock do not spend Christmas Day at Hogwarts alone.

 

Festive decorations hang from the bookshelves in the Room of Requirement (courtesy of John's imagination, no doubt) and Sherlock passes the time testing the effects of nitrous oxide on the frozen corpse of a bowtruckle he fished out of the Great Lake.

 

John, curious blue eyes hidden behind safety goggles, watches him raptly.

 

XxX

Molly has been back from Christmas break for two days when John finds her crying at dinner. Janine has an arm around her shoulders, while Greg has seized his chance and is delicately cradling Molly's hand. He blushes when he catches John's eye, and gives Molly's fingers a somewhat awkward pat in reassurance. Mike looks worriedly on from across the table, and as John slides onto the bench beside him he explains, “It's Toby.” John frowns, confused, until the sobbing increases in volume and he twigs.

 

_Ah_. Toby. Molly's cat. Of course. “What's happened to him?” he asks, as gently as he can. “Is he sick?” Janine shoots him a stern look; she has the uncanny ability to see right through people, and she knows that in this case, 'sick' is a euphemism for 'dead'.

“H-h-he's in the hospit-al wing,” Molly hiccups, her sweet brown eyes puffy and red. She makes as if to continue, but the words seem to catch in her throat and she coughs, and lapses into more noisy tears. Janine tries to soothe her, rubbing her shoulder and shushing.

“Someone's been poisoning him,” she says in her soft lilt, turning to John. “Madam Pomfrey thinks they've been feeding it to him deliberately.” Her pink-painted lips press into a tight line. She despises harm being done to innocent people. And their cats.

 

“Y'know, on CSI,” Greg chips in, clearly trying his best to think of something positive to say, “all they'd have to do is put a little camera on Toby's collar. They'd catch the culprit on video.” Molly carries on crying. The roll of Janine's eyes is nearly audible.

“Yes, but this isn't CSI, Greg,” she points out, exasperated. “We can't use muggle technology here. It won't work.” Greg gives a disgruntled sigh.

“Well how else are we gonna find out who's doing it?” he retorts. Mike's brow furrows in thought.

“We could write to the Auror Office,” he suggests, very quietly, but the idea is immediately shot down by Janine.

“I don't think they'll send an Auror out for a cat poisoning, Mike,” she says, and then swears and apologises when Molly cries harder.

“But we need help,” Mike presses, and Greg replies sarcastically,

“Good thing we have a qualified detective on hand then, isn't it?”

 

“It _is_.” Every head at their small portion of the table turns to look at John. Molly's sniffling quietens. Greg stares at his fellow Gryffindor in bewilderment.

“What on _earth_ are you on about, mate?” John can feel a smile spreading across his face, a faintest ripple of excitement rolling through his abdomen.

“We _do_ have a detective,” he explains, leaning in close, “and he's even better than an Auror.”

 

XxX

 

The following evening, after Sherlock has put a considerable amount of effort into pretending that he has far better things to be doing than working a case (a ruse that John sees straight through, plain as day), the Ravenclaw strides into the hospital wing to examine Toby with his magnifying strip. John follows just a few feet behind him; he's getting better at keeping up.

 

Sherlock breezes through his inspection of Toby's fur, teeth and eyes, enlists John's help while he examines sharp claws, and somehow it's only John who manages to end up covered in scratches. Molly bursts into tears when Sherlock announces that he'll take the case and throws herself at him, sobbing - she remains blissfully unaware that Sherlock tries desperately to keep her at arm's length. John catches his friend's startled gaze and stifles a laugh.

 

Madam Pomfrey tuts and mutters her disapproval, and shoos them all out.

 

XxX

 

It's taken them months to get this far. They haven't been able to practice nearly as often as they'd like, having to snatch time in between endless essays and regular detentions for falling asleep in class (the latter can be attributed entirely to John. He's not sure Sherlock even sleeps at all). Not to mention Sherlock has been having a – frankly laughable, in the boy’s own opinion – amount of trouble learning the spell. One which he believes he should've had memorised and down to an art form by the age of three. Not that he had a wand then, but that's beside the point.

 

The point is that's he's a genius, and he's damn well determined that this is the last time he'll look upon this cupboard. And if that means admitting that he's terrified of the thing about to come out that door, well – then terrified he will be. Just this once. It wouldn't do to hinder one’s own abilities out of such a petty emotion as pride. “You ready?” John asks. Sherlock nods and squares his shoulders, raises his wand. “Okay.” John takes a deep breath and hopes that tonight will be the night. “Three...two...one...” John wrenches the cupboard door open.

 

The hands appear first, like always, and then the spindly limbs, unfolding themselves from the shadowy depths of that small space. Then the face, with those haunting eyes, and the sharp teeth and the mane of curls – Sherlock's heart falters and races, the shock one that he will never get used to. The figure begins to approach, leering at him, and blood is running down its chin. In his peripheral vision, Sherlock sees John nod encouragingly. _Let it in, Sherlock, let yourself feel it. But don't let it take control_. Sherlock inhales.

 

“ _Riddikulus!”_

 

The figure shrinks in on itself, smaller and smaller, till it grins woodenly from the floor below and bashes its cymbals together with a tiny tinkering sound. Sherlock regards the wind-up toy with a combination of satisfaction and disgust. John laughs. “You did it!” he cries, the words warm and brimming over with excitement. “You actually did it!” Sherlock flicks his wand, sends the Boggart back into the cupboard before it can change shape again, and locks the door. Turning to the Gryffindor, he smiles weakly.

“No need to sound so surprised, John.”

 

XxX

 

They practice for several days more, late into the night; Sherlock wants to prove to himself (and to John) that it wasn't a fluke. Now that he knows he can do it the fear starts to seep away, lessening a little more each time he faces the monster in the cupboard - until finally, in their last attempt of the night, Sherlock looks upon the twisted figure with no fear and no shame. Nothing but contempt, and a grim determination that he will never feel that way again.

 

XxX

 

“I've got it.”

 

John is absorbed in his textbook, eyes following the moving picture of a man as he changes form, shedding his human skin. Below, another photo shows a group of renaissance muggle villagers, none of whom are moving. Some have been savaged, flesh ripped away by ragged claws, entire limbs and torsos rent asunder, mangled and bloody. Others were more fortunate. They lie comparatively clean, neatly beheaded by their neighbours, no doubt struck down without a moment's hesitation: there is no cure for a werewolf bite, and at the time no way of managing such a 'condition'. Better safe than sorry. John wonders if perhaps those not bitten could have been saved with modern medicine, modern magic. Wonders why more witches and wizards don't train as Healers these days, why they don't feel compelled to protect muggles from the dangers of the magical world. As focused as he is, a whole minute passes before he realises that Sherlock has spoken, and he lifts his head to stare at the Ravenclaw. “What was that?”

 

They're in Defence Against The Dark Arts, seated, as usual, at the back. Sherlock's textbook is open and his quill is in hand, but the notes he's scribbling have nothing at all to do with werewolves. John peers at them curiously; whatever Sherlock's writing, it appears to be in some language John can't understand. Probably Latin.

 

Sherlock loathes repeating himself, so he doesn't bother. Instead he leans closer and turns his parchment so that John can see, and circles three bullet-pointed words with his quill. “ _These_ ,” he explains, “are the first three ingredients for our poison. They can all be easily found at the apothecary in Hogsmeade. These two, however,” he circles more words, “would need to be purchased in Diagon Alley and used within the week.” Deep blue eyes flicker up, meet intelligent silver.

“So this was planned,” John replies, putting the pieces together. “Someone is getting those ingredients sent to them regularly from outside Hogwarts.” Sherlock's lips twitch up into a smile, one that he barely registers. John is getting better.

“And?” he prompts.

 

“ _And_...” John thinks for a moment. “And we can rule out it being a first or second-year doing this. They don't have permission slips for Hogsmeade and we're monitoring the only accessible secret passages out of Hogwarts.” Smile growing, Sherlock nods.

“Correct. Now...” He taps his quill, indicating the final bullet-point on the page. “This is our last, but most important ingredient. It's extremely rare, can't be bought in any old apothecary, not even in Diagon Alley. _But_...a very old, very small supply _is_ kept in the potions supply cupboard, in case of emergency.” John raises an eyebrow.

“Let me guess,” he says, “Some of it has gone missing.” Sherlock nods again, openly grinning now.

“ _Exactly_ ,” he confirms, and John feels an odd sense of pride at the pleased look Sherlock gives him. Something warm swirls in the centre of his chest.

“So who are we looking for?”

“A Slytherin Prefect – their presence in that part of the castle would have to be explainable, especially after curfew. Prefects are the only students shown any degree of leniency, what with their patrols. Statistically speaking a male suspect is more likely than female.”

“Right.” A familiar flip of his stomach, a prickle of anticipation up his spine. John's tongue darts out to lick his lip. “Now what?”

 

“We watch the store cupboard.” Sherlock folds up the parchment, slips it inside his robes. Pulls his textbook closer. “He'll need to make a return trip soon. And we'll be waiting.”

 

XxX

“Molly's got a crush, y'know.”

 

It slips out before he can stop himself, and John wants to bite off his own tongue. He'd promised Janine he wouldn't say anything, least of all to Sherlock. But he wants to know. He _needs_ to know, even if he doesn't understand why. Sherlock is busy pulling on his jumper, getting ready to leave the Room of Requirement. It's nearly three o'clock. Practice is over for tonight. “Thank you for that fascinating bit of information, John,” he replies as he arches an eyebrow. “Though I'm not sure what you expect me to do with it.”

“It's you,” John blurts out, silently hoping that Molly will forgive him. “She fancies you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock's brow creases for the briefest of moments, before his expression clears, and he shrugs nonchalantly. “Not entirely unexpected I suppose. Next time you see Molly please inform her that her affections would be much better placed in Graham – ”

“Greg.” Sherlock ignores him. “I've never seen such truth to the lost puppy analogy.”

“So you don't fancy her?” Sherlock shoots him an extremely pained look.

“Don't be ridiculous John.”

 

John releases a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He's not sure why he's so relieved, but he pushes that to the back of his mind: it's late, he's extremely tired, and now is not the time. “So,” he continues out of sheer curiosity, running a hand through his hair, “you're not interested in girlfriends right now, then?” Sherlock is straightening his tie in the mirror on the wall.

“No. Not really my area.” It takes a few seconds for those words to sink in. When they do, John's head shoots up, and he stares at the back of his friend's head. He blinks.

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

John feels his cheeks begin to flush. He clears his throat. “Boyfriends, then?” he asks, and when he realises just how unsteady his voice is he hastens to cover it up with, “Which is fine by the way.” Sherlock pauses. Silvery eyes meet deep blue in the mirror.

“I know it's fine.” Sherlock's gaze is penetrating, tone taking on a quality that John has never heard before. He feels as though those eyes are stripping him down, taking him apart and cataloguing how he fits together. John swallows. He looks away, distracts himself with stuffing his wand into his trouser pocket.

“Good,” is all he says. “Good.”

 

XxX

 

Two days later, they are brewing a simple draught of charisma in Potions when Sherlock leans in, and mutters in John's ear, “Meet me tonight, eleven o'clock. I'm going to teach you my favourite spell.”

 

XxX

 

“Not strong enough.” The weak light glowing at the tip of John's wand flickers and dies, and he swears. “Find another one. Try again.”

 

It's alright for Sherlock, John grumbles to himself, watching the Ravenclaw lounge against the edge of the lab table. Sherlock's a gifted wizard, and he's been practicing notoriously difficult spells for years – this one is a walk in the park for him by now. But John is not so well-versed in advanced magic, and he's struggling. _Think of a happy memory_. It should be easy. Simple. A day out with family, perhaps, or a birthday, or a Christmas. That's what any normal person would think of. But the Watsons are far from normal. John has never had a family day out. He's never had a birthday celebration. All his pre-Hogwarts Christmases involved beatings and bruises and cleaning up after his father. Nothing happy there. He's been trying to picture his mother's face, a blur of kind blue eyes and a warm smile; tried to recall the sound of her voice, the tinkling of her laughter, the love with which she said his name. He can't remember her clearly. It's not enough.

 

Clenching his jaw, John raises his wand again and selects another memory: the moment he opened his Hogwarts letter. He closes his eyes, sees emerald ink and a red wax seal beneath his eyelids, feels thick parchment under his fingertips. “ _Expecto patronum_.” He feels a faint warmth flow over him, a brief glow through his lashes. It wavers. Fades away. John opens his eyes and swears again, and for a moment he's tempted to throw his wand clear across the room. _Stupid_. He grits his teeth. _Useless_. He feels a presence creep up beside him, and slender fingers lay themselves on his shoulder.

“It's alright,” Sherlock says with surprising softness. John looks up, finding his gaze is turned away, toward the silvery-white apparition of an otter that plays on top of a lab desk. “It's a very difficult spell that the majority of witches and wizards never master. For those who do, it takes time.” John grumbles darkly.

“How long did it take you?” he asks, and immediately wishes he hadn't when Sherlock replies,

“Nearly a month.” John's heart sinks to the bottom of his toes. He's been practicing longer than that already, and he's still no closer to getting it right. This is Sherlock's favourite spell, and at the rate John's going, he'll never be able to cast it.

 

The heart of a Patronus Charm is happiness. Warmth. Joy. Some people, Sherlock said, think of their lover. Others think of home. Happiness may be a particular place or an activity or perhaps both. But John has already tried thinking of Hogwarts. Of the first time he rode a broom. He has no home, no caring family to remember.

 

He is not loved.

 

XxX

 

Two weeks later, Sherlock catches him. A seventh year Slytherin boy nobody knows, deathly pale and sobbing when he's brought before McGonagall. He accepts his punishment without a word. Doesn't even try to defend himself.

 

_Half-blood, at least five siblings, family-orientated, from Manchester. Introverted but courageous. Fiercely protective of those he loves. Values the cunning and shrewd focus of successful business tycoons, his intended career path_.

 

This is a boy with strong moral principles. Not the type to stray from them. Definitely not the type to poison the cat of an innocent Hufflepuff girl he's never spoken to before.

 

Not willingly, at least.

 

XxX

 

John is woken from a dreamless sleep by an insistent shaking at his shoulder. It's Sherlock, curly hair falling into his eyes, milky skin glowing in the thin shafts of moonlight. He's fully-dressed.

 

Tonight's the night.

 

XxX

 

Until now, he has only been a shadow. A name that conjures a bad taste in the mouth, attached to a glittery-eyed, dark-haired boy that struts into sight in class and slithers out again at mealtimes. A face easily lost in the crowd. But not anymore.

 

Now, John looks into the chilling, emotionless eyes of James Moriarty, and knows he'll never forget his face again.

 

The classroom is dark, lit only by moonlight so as not to draw too much attention. Silver beams fall like silk over Sherlock's form, and John beside him, and illuminates the features of the boys they face. Moran, tall and heavyset, shoulders squared, feet planted and wand out. Sebastian Wilkes, slim and not so threatening, leaning against the window with his arms folded across his chest. Between them, Jim, perched on the edge of a desk. Hair slicked back. Legs daintily crossed. The picture of innocence. Except for the words coming out of his mouth. “Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,” he singsongs, the words soft and lilting. “My my, Sherlock, I just keep wrapping you round my little finger.” He grins, showing his teeth, and asks excitedly, “Have you enjoyed my presents? My little games?” Sherlock remains expressionless. Even John can't tell if his nonchalance is feigned as he shrugs his shoulders.

“They could have been more challenging," he replies quietly. “I felt this year was a bit of a let-down, after last.” His tone takes on one of condescension. “Honestly Jim, downgrading from serial suicides to poisoning cats?”

“Are you disappointed?”

“A tad.” Jim's eyes flash, but not with anger.

 

Then they turn to John. “But oh, look.” Those dark depths are so cold that John almost shivers, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to meet Jim's gaze. “You've brought a pet.” From the window Sebastian laughs, as though the clench of John's jaw and furrow of his brow are somehow amusing. “Who's this?” he asks, looking John up and down. “Your sidekick?”

“This is my _friend_ ,” Sherlock answers, the words sharp as razors. “John Watson.” Sebastian laughs again, and this time Moran joins him, guffawing along in the background. A rush of anger, a flood of protectiveness that makes John stick his chin out and declare,

“ _Best_ friend, actually.” Sherlock is so tense that John thinks his bones might snap, but when he hears those words something changes in him, a softening of his frame that John catches in the corner of his eye.

 

Jim is giggling.

 

“He's so touchingly _loyal_ ,” he says, hopping down off the table. The Slytherin pushes his hands into his pockets. For a brief moment John expects him to come sauntering closer, and goes still, ready to reach for his wand – but Jim remains where he is. “It's an awful shame,” he continues. “Minds of our calibre, associating with mudbloods.” John's arm flings out on instinct, and makes contact with Sherlock's chest as he lurches forward, holding him back. A muscle twitches in his jaw, knuckles white around his wand. John silently wills him not to start a fight, not over something as stupid as a slur. John's heard worse. Felt worse.

 

Sebastian and Moran both have their own wands drawn, decidedly less relaxed than before as they level them at the duo. Only Jim appears to be completely untouched by the sudden increase in tension. He laughs, high and maddening. “Oh ho _, good!”_ He looks John up and down, a raking scan of black eyes that leaves John feeling as though shards of glass are embedded in his skin. “It appears Sherlock's become quite attached to you, Johnny boy. How sweet.” And now he does move, a casual stroll as he shakes his head, and chews his bottom lip with a smile. “Why waste yourself on this imbecile and his boring little friends?” he asks, gaze locking onto Sherlock's. “Why bother with them when you and _I_...” Trailing off, Jim comes to a stop when he and Sherlock are mere inches apart, the Ravenclaw rigid, coldly accepting the intrusion into his personal space.

 

Jim looks at Sherlock like one might a trophy or a priceless jewel; like a prize to be won, a treasure to be obtained, but there is no covetousness in that gaze. Only a consuming need to _own_ , to control, on a level that surpasses all greed John has ever seen before. “We could be partners, Sherlock,” Jim whispers, studying him through half-lidded eyes. “We could rule the world. Ruin it. Burn it. We'd be unstoppable. I've been building you up to it, my dear. Case by case. We'd have so much _fun_ together, you and I.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Oh, then I'd have to burn _you_. And I will, Sherlock. So slow, so painfully slow. One itty bit at a time until there is nothing left. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you.”

“I look forward to it.”

 

XxX

 

John thinks of electricity and the way it prickles up his spine, the thumping of his own heart, the thundering of it in his eardrums. He thinks of silver eyes and lightning deductions, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins. And into the quiet of the room, he whispers, “ _Expecto patronum_.” It seems to happen in slow motion. The glow that grows at the tip of his wand, the smooth, pearlescent light that slowly begins to take shape. It does not fade; it only becomes stronger, brighter, and he feels as though he could almost reach out and touch it, run his fingertips through the beautiful substance of his guardian. Moment pass. Light bends to form tiny paws and a snout, two delicate, twitching ears and whiskers. The form shuffles along through the air, curls up into itself and rolls around his head in a lazy circle, before coming to halt in front of his face, and unfurling gently. For the first time in his life, John Watson finally lays eyes upon his corporeal patronus:

 

A hedgehog.

 

A small, snuffling, bristly hedgehog.

 

John exhales, half amazed, half disappointed. He was hoping for something a little more...impressive. Like a lion. Or a bear. Something with a few more teeth and less...cuddly.

 

A rustle of movement, an intake of breath, and Sherlock appears beside him. The Ravenclaw lifts his hand to John's patronus, watches as the hedgehog sniffs curiously at his fingertips, and in a voice hushed with awe he says, “ _Beautiful_.” John looks to him. He can't have heard that right.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” Raising his wand, Sherlock summons his own patronus. A sleek otter bounds forth from his wand and descends upon John's hedgehog, and immediately the two begin playing, already thick as thieves. “He's just like you,” Sherlock murmurs. “A gentle heart, courageous enough to allow some vulnerability. But a fierce, protective exterior when called for.” For a long moment John stares at Sherlock, allowing those words to sink in. He licks at his dry lips. Flushes a pleased, dusky shade of pink. Perhaps not so disappointed, after all. Sherlock catches his eye and smiles, and John blushes harder and looks away, clearing his throat.

“So will my patronus always be...well, him? It won't change?” Sherlock shakes his head.

“Doubtful,” he says. “One's patronus may only change in one circumstance.”

“And what's that?” Sherlock goes still, quiet. John recognises the thoughtful look that comes over him, and waits patiently for his answer. Finally he replies,

“It may only change if one forms a deep, lasting connection to another witch or wizard. It may take the form of this other person's own patronus, or may become the opposite half of the other's, so that together they make a mated pair.”

 

John turns to watch his hedgehog, still playing and roly-poly-ing with Sherlock's otter. “You mean like a lion and a lioness,” he says.

“Or a stag and a doe,” Sherlock confirms. Then, more sharply, he adds, “Or alternatively, if you marry a woman whose patronus is, for example, a cat – your hedgehog may switch species to that of the feline variety.”

“Right.”

“But it requires the purest of bonds. Physical will not do: it must exceed such base things as sex and lust. It must be unbreakable. A bond of unconditional devotion and care, of support and lifelong emotional attachment.” John nods, slowly.

“You mean soulmates?” he asks.

“Some might say true love.”

 

The words are soft. Barely audible, so that for a second John thinks he imagined them. Imagined the clinical, scientific detachment with which they are spoken, and the cool, stinging hint of bitterness that hides underneath. He has never heard Sherlock sound so regretful. Carefully, John asks, “And what do you say?”

 

“I say that love is a chemical defect found predominantly in the losing side.” John winces at the sharpness of Sherlock's voice, cutting through him like a knife.

“I thought this was your favourite spell?”

“It is,” Sherlock replies. His otter fades away, no longer sustained by a happy memory. John's hedgehog is left alone, looking around for his lost companion. “It symbolises all that is human. All that is extraordinarily weak.”

 

XxX

 

John Watson has never been more nervous in his life. The sky is clear, visibility is perfect, and the broomstick he's borrowed from the store cupboard is sturdy and reassuring in his hands. Hiding behind fluffy white clouds, there's no danger of being blinded by the sun, and the lack of spectators in the stands means concentrating will be much easier. All in all, a perfect day for Quidditch.

 

John feels like he's about to throw up.

 

When he'd decided to try out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, he hadn't anticipated going head to head with burly sixth-years twice his size for the position of Beater. He doesn't stand a chance, not with the frankly pathetic amount of practice he's managed to get in. Thankfully Greg looks equally nauseous. The majority of the Gryffindor team is made up of seventh-years, players who have stood the test of time and continuously put all new applicants to shame. But they'll be leaving at the end of this year; it's time the team gets some fresh blood. The only member who'll be staying is a tall, slightly self-absorbed fifth-year by the name of Dimmock. He's also their Keeper, and, perhaps a bit unfortunately, their Captain. Beside John, Greg sizes up the ample amount of competition and mutters, “Not so sure I wanna be Chaser after all...” John murmurs back,

“Don't worry mate, you'll be fine,” as Dimmock separates them into their prospective positions. It's more to reassure himself than Greg.

 

The Seekers are up first. Two thin, reed-like boys fail to even follow the Snitch with their eyes, and the third student to try out catches it in twenty seconds. She is a curly-haired, mocha-skinned second-year named Sally Donovan. She makes the cut without a moment's hesitation. Then come the Chasers, for which there are far more hopefuls. But Greg needn't have worried – places go to himself, a pretty third-year called Sarah and a disgruntled fourth-year by the name of Anderson. John cheers and claps wildly as Greg wanders, dazed and tired but very happy, off the pitch. And then the Beaters are up. They're to try out in pairs.

 

The two sixth-years take to the air first. Dimmock releases the Bludgers. Both heavily muscled, wielding their clubs with deadly force, the boys make an intimidating sight. John's partner leans in toward him and whispers, “All of a sudden I'm not feeling so confident.” John giggles, high and anxious, and the fourth-year boy holds out his hand. “Bill Murray.” John takes it, shakes as firmly as he can.

“John Watson.” Dimmock blows his whistle, calls the sixth-years back to the ground.

“Well, John,” Bill says, running a hand through his dark hair, “let's see if we can't show these bastards how it's done.” John nods weakly. His hands are shaking. He's going to be terrible. No, scratch that – he's going to be absolutely _awful_ and he'll probably break an arm while he's at it, or club Bill in the face or club _himself_ in the face or fall off his broom or, or –

 

A flash of movement above the stands catches John's eye as he walks, on quivering legs, out onto the pitch. It's an owl. A large, elegant tawny owl, soaring in a graceful arc over empty benches. John would know that bird anywhere. His gaze drops to the stands below and there, sitting beneath the feathered royalty that is Redbeard Holmes, is Sherlock. The Ravenclaw sees him looking. The smile that Sherlock gives can only be described as sheepish, clearly embarrassed at having been spotted. John feels something light up inside of him. Sherlock came. He actually came.

 

A short wooden club is being pushed into his hand, and his feet plant themselves on either side of his broom. “Watson, Murray, off you go.” Dimmock blows his whistle. John takes in a deep breath, and kicks off.

 

XxX

 

John drops his broom and heads for the stands the moment Dimmock declares try-outs to be over. “Sherlock, oh my god – did you see that?!” He's breathless, exhausted and pink in the face as he skids to a halt in front of his friend, and his smile is bright enough to dazzle. “Me and Bill, we were so great – that shot I did! I knocked it clean off the pitch!” For the first time since they've known each other, Sherlock sees a John Watson that's bursting with pride. It warms him in a way that's thoroughly confusing.

“Your performance was admirable,” he finds himself saying, and then, because he's flushing red and doesn't want to let on just how pleased he really is, Sherlock adds, “Though you may want to work on your momentum – ” John doesn't hear him; he's too busy throwing his arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. He forgets that he's sweaty, that he probably smells and desperately needs a shower. All he knows in this moment is ecstatic joy, and pride, and a distinct appreciation for Sherlock Holmes.

“Thanks for coming,” John says, pulling back and letting him go. “I was hoping you would.”

 

Sherlock finds himself quite enable to reply for a few long seconds. No one but his parents has ever hugging him before – Mycroft isn't the type, and Grandfather and Grandmother are of the generation that holds too much affection to be a mortal sin. Sherlock is...not quite sure what to make of it.

 

Redbeard swoops down, perching on his shoulder, and Sherlock recovers himself. His mouth twists in another silly, completely uncontrollable smile. “Dinner?” he suggests meekly. John cannot wipe the grin off his face.

“Starving.”

 

He and Bill are not as strong as the sixth-years, but they have far more finesse, and apparently that's what Dimmock, God bless his vanity, has been looking for.

 

They both make the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please believe me when I say that more chapters will be coming, slowly but surely!


	4. Grim Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock –” John has to say it, at least once. “You don’t have to –”  
> “No,” the Ravenclaw interrupts him firmly. “I want you to know. You need to know.” 
> 
> Sherlock closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

It's the Christmas of their fourth year when Sherlock finally finds out the truth. They're sitting in the Gryffindor common room together, having laid claim to two of the cushiest armchairs. Almost all of the other Gryffindors have gone home for Christmas, including Greg, but they have the place to themselves: the few that remain are celebrating elsewhere in the castle. Arms wrapped around his knees, John gazes thoughtfully into the flames crackling in the grate. Sherlock watches the firelight play on his face, illuminating his sandy hair, casting his dark circles into shadow. Sherlock hurts to see John look so melancholy.

After a long time, John finally breaks the silence.

“You asked me last year why I never go home for Christmas,” he murmurs softly, and Sherlock nods. He says nothing. He wants John to open up at his own pace. Eventually, John continues. “I don't have a very nice family. My sister, Harry, she drinks all the time...has done ever since I got my letter. Since she realised she wasn't magical, too.” He wets his bottom lip, breathing deeply. “But the worst part is my dad,” he whispers, as though afraid the man himself might hear. “He's always drunk. He beat Harry so bad once when he found out she was gay, and I – ” John breaks off to swallow down the lump in his throat. He won't look at Sherlock. He can't. “Dad already hits me. Can you imagine what he'd do if he found out that I...?”

John can't say any more. His eyes scrunch and his mouth twists and he hides his face in his knees, unable to finish, unable to speak aloud the secret he's been keeping for so long. What if Sherlock hates him for it? What if Sherlock doesn't want to talk to him again?

Next to him, Sherlock's knuckles have turned white around the arms of his chair at the thought of someone treating John so badly, of someone laying a hand on his loyal, kind, brave John Watson – but when those last few words leave John's lips, Sherlock's anger momentarily gives way to disbelief. He looks over at his friend, swallowing down the poison on the tip of his tongue.

“You're...?” he husks out. “You mean you...?” John emits a muffled sob against his knees.

“I don't know what I am!” he wails, breaking down at last. “I like girls, I know I do, but I like boys too and – and – ” John dissolves into tears. Something lurches in Sherlock's chest at the sight, twisting and painful; he's never seen John so distressed before.

The Gryffindor gives a start at the feel of a tentative touch to his shoulder. He looks up, eyes red, his usually smiling face stained with tears. Sherlock's gaze is fixed on him. “There are more orientations than just gay and straight,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, and with a wince he adds, “Far more,” in a gentler tone. John wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. He mumbles thickly,

“There are?” Sherlock does his best to smile in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

“Of course,” he replies. “Lots of people out there experience romantic and or sexual attraction to both men and women. Nothing wrong with wanting to shag both.”

 

John coughs, and laughs at the strangeness of that word coming from Sherlock's mouth.

 

XxX

 

John does not receive Christmas presents. He just doesn't, never has - at least not according to his memory, though he supposes there may have been one occasion when he was still in nappies, and his mother was still around to insist on celebrating. No point asking Harry. She doesn't talk about mum, not to anyone, not ever. The ghosts of Christmases past will have to remain just that.

And so John sits, curled up in his armchair in front of the fire. His head still feels heavy and thick from last night's tears, eyes dry and sore. But the ice-cold knot of fear in his belly has dissipated somewhat. The secret he carries doesn't feel so heavy. He tells himself that the relief he feels has everything to do with having finally voiced his fears aloud, and not the quiet, logical acceptance of one Sherlock Holmes.

John is jerked out of his thoughts by the opening of the porthole, and moments later a windswept, snow-dusted Sherlock appears in the doorway. Redbeard is perched on his shoulder, as magnificent as ever. Sherlock's wand is poised mid-air as he enters, and before him floats a number of presents of varying shapes and sizes. John counts at least half a dozen even as Sherlock levitates them to the floor in front of the fire, and as he reaches up to brush the snow from his hair he says,

"Mummy always did have fantastic timing. She may be a flake, but at least she's a punctual one." Sherlock offers Redbeard the tip of his finger for an affectionate nibble. "Merry Christmas John."

"I..." John grasps for the words to reply, finds nothing. He hadn't expected any company today, least of all Sherlock's. "Shouldn't you be...I don't know. Visiting Mycroft?" Redbeard chooses this moment to take off in a flurry of mahogany feathers, swooping up into the rafters, already bored. Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock measures John from the tips of his holey socks up to the too-large cable-knit he's swamped in, and asks,

"Why on earth would I visit him?" John's brow furrows.

"It's Christmas," he says. "You should be celebrating with your family." He's still speaking when Sherlock gives a dismissive wave of his hand, as though shooing the very idea away.

"Mycroft hasn't acknowledged this nor any other holiday since he declared them to be 'commercialised nonsense' at the age of eight. He's right of course, but I refuse to allow him the satisfaction of my agreement." John stares at Sherlock, his expression blank.

 

“Right.” If he’s honest, he’s nowhere near as surprised as he probably should be. Of course Mycroft would disapprove of holidays. Arms wrapped tightly around himself, lost in long sleeves that he will have to start rolling up, John nods his head to the pile of presents by the hearth. “Your mum and dad sent all these?" Sherlock’s expression is grim, almost pained as he shucks off his cloak.

"My parents always go overboard,” he mutters, throwing his cloak onto an empty armchair. “They love celebrations and so lack self-control in that department.” He settles down beside the pile, crossing his legs underneath him, and adds matter-of-factly, “Now, John, come and sit so we can start unwrapping."

"We?” John frowns. Why would Sherlock need help with that? Since when, in the entire history of their friendship, has Sherlock _asked_ for help, _ever?_

The Ravenclaw looks at him now as though he were insisting the Earth was flat. Sherlock sighs deeply, visibly pained.

"John,” he sighs again, “you can be so terribly slow sometimes. Half of these are _yours_.” John goes very still at that, blue eyes widening, bright with surprise. He looks to the exquisitely-wrapped gifts, all glimmering paper and silk ribbon and silver tags, then back again.

“ _Mine_?” The only response he receives is a soft, smooth parcel thrown into his lap. He touches it gingerly, doesn’t want to ruin it. “Why would your parents send _me_ a present?” At this Sherlock flushes, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Well…” He looks anywhere but at John. “I may have mentioned…I may have _insinuated_ …”

“You told them I’ve never had any.”

“Yes. They were…quite upset.” Sherlock fidgets uncomfortably, his face and neck now a blazing shade of crimson. Hesitantly, his gaze flickers up. “Not good?” John licks his bottom lip, shakes his head.

“S’fine,” he mumbles, and finally turns over the little tag that bears his name on one side. On the other is scrawled in messy script: _Love, Mummy & Daddy Holmes._

 

John is slow opening the present; he takes his time pulling off the ribbon, seems reluctant to rip the beautiful paper, though the way his eyes light up when he finally does so is unmissable, and Sherlock thinks John’s cautious glee may be one of the most pleasant things he’s seen.

He wouldn’t have thought himself capable of such patience before, expected to want to tear the paper open just to hurry things along. But watching John now, he feels no such thing.

Just the low, nervous buzz of anticipation in the pit of his stomach as, at long last, a thick woollen lump falls into John’s lap.

The scarf is chunky and warm, close-knit in wide stripes of black and deep purple, rich navy and silver. At one end crouches a giant tawny owl, shrouded in a wreath of white carnations. Tucked beneath one wing is a little beige mass; a field mouse is, unfortunately, difficult to detail in every replication of this image. Sherlock watches John carefully. Wonders if he understands.

John runs the scarf reverently through his fingers, and is speechless.

“I…” he tries after a moment. Tears well hot behind his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Mummy wanted you to have one,” Sherlock explains, fidgeting again. One of the gifts (undoubtedly a seasonal box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans) is suddenly fascinating. “We all do. Even Mycroft isn’t spared the horror.” He pulls a face. “And you do need a proper scarf, even if it bears our embarrassingly dull family crest.”

“Your family crest?” Sherlock nods. Then suddenly tucks his chin down, and blurts,

“If you dislike it, you don’t – a simple fire charm will do the trick, I’m sure there are some far nicer ones for sale in Hogsmeade, in fact the lines here are terribly wonky, and there’s a hole –”

“Sherlock.” His mouth snaps shut, rambling cut off as his cheeks flush. He risks a furtive glance, and finds John is beaming. “It’s amazing. I love it.”

“You do?” John is already winding the scarf about his neck, burying his nose in its softness. It smells like new parchment and tea, feels like butterbeer on a cold winter day.

“I do,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

XxX

 

Classes resume far too soon after that – though not soon enough, if you ask Sherlock, which John wisely does not. But the Ravenclaw's joy is short-lived, for their first class of the New Year is Divination, and the news sends Sherlock into such an impressive sulk that he doesn't bother to appear at breakfast, adamant that he's not going. He _loathes_ it, refuses to accept that an area of magic with no absolutely no logical or scientific foundation whatsoever could seriously be considered an academic subject worthy of Hogwarts. It bears too much resemblance to the silly muggle ideas of _palm reading_ and _tarot_ and – Sherlock shudders at the thought – that horrible spectre, _fate_. John had shot him a disapproving look, and was rewarded with a scathing reminder that he has always been a romantic at heart and so is naturally prone to believe in such delusions.

But it doesn't matter. Sherlock pitched this exact same fit before their first Divination class, and John is well-equipped to handle it. He heads straight for the Ravenclaw tower with the news that, unless Sherlock gets his arse out of bed in ten minutes, he'll have Mycroft cut off his access to the Potions storeroom _and_ Honeydukes, permanently.

Sherlock is up and dressed in five.

 

XxX

 

When they finally settle into their seats, they are for once not the last ones to arrive. Professor Knight has yet to show. The room has had something of a makeover, with all the velvet repaired and the wood polished to a shine. Professor Knight has removed his desk in favour of a large oak table set under the windows, bearing an old iron kettle and an array of little pots, and no small supply of teacups and saucers. Greg has taken the next table over, and he briefly chats Quidditch scores with John while Sherlock eyes the crystal ball in front of them with disgust. This is only going to be a total waste of his time. There are several cases he could be working instead. The only consolation he has is that, at the very least, he shares this class with John, and will not have to endure its stupidity alone. Sherlock is almost glad when the classroom door finally swings open, their professor finally deigning to grace them with his presence. Almost.

The entire class falls silent, for this man is very much Not Professor Knight: he is too tall, too broadly built to be so, with a long, crooked nose and white hair parted neatly to one side. He wears silvery robes and a jovial smile, and that in itself is alarming – they are used to the stammering and timidity of Knight, whom Sherlock could intimidate into silence with merely a look (something he had used to his advantage when bored, and that John strongly disapproved of). But this man is altogether an entirely different sack of nargles. It makes Sherlock very uncomfortable.

Some of this must show on his face, for even as the professor bellows a greeting Sherlock feels a gentle nudge at his side, and finds John looking at him questioningly. Sherlock's brow furrows. This is a rather unexpected turn of events, and he doesn't like it. Not one bit.

“Good afternoon, boys and girls!” The teacher has flung his books down upon Knight's desk, thick, leather-bound volumes on every conceivable aspect of Divination. He flicks his wand, and the topmost book opens with a flurry of pages. “Today we shall be reviewing the things you learnt last term, so if you'd please endeavour to stay awake...” A nervous giggle goes round the classroom at that, uncertain and quiet. Some students are already reaching into their bags and pulling out notes, and Sherlock wants to roll his eyes at their unquestioning obedience. But then Greg pipes up,

“Sorry, mate, but who are you?” and everyone seems to stop moving. Sherlock thinks, just this once, that perhaps the Gryffindor isn't a complete idiot after all.

 

“Isn't it obvious?” he drawls. “He's our new professor.” The man turns to Sherlock then, who braces himself for the inevitable sigh, the look of distaste that every teacher adopts upon realising they've been landed with Sherlock Holmes. But it never comes. As soon as he lays eyes on Sherlock, the man's face breaks out in a wide, toothy grin.

“Ah, Master Holmes!” he exclaims, with a look of delight that immediately sets Sherlock's teeth on edge. “I've heard all about you. An exceptionally bright student, I'm told, with a unique attitude.” No one laughs. Beside him, John goes very still. He curls his fingers into a fist before he can touch a warning hand to Sherlock's arm. “And of course,” the man continues, “I've heard all about your particular _talent_. Perhaps you could give the class a demonstration?” Sherlock is positively rigid in his seat, arms folded so tightly across his chest that he feels like he might crush his own ribcage. He has never had a teacher refer to his deductions as a 'talent' before – an irritation, yes, and a trick or a joke. But never a talent. Part of him thinks he should be pleased – but all Sherlock feels is a vague disgust. Coldly, he replies,

“I'm not a performing monkey, _professor_.” There is a collective intake of breath, a rash of shocked whispers. Really, Sherlock thinks, his classmates shouldn't be surprised by him anymore. From the corner of his eye, he sees the corner of John's mouth twitch up.

Sherlock has to give the man credit where it's due: he doesn't so much as flinch. Instead he only gives a tilt of his head, as if in agreement, and suggests,

“Maybe next time, then?” Sherlock says nothing. The man doesn't seem to notice, turning back to the class. “Professor Knight was unexpectedly taken ill over the holidays,” he says. “I am Professor Frankland, and I'll be covering his classes until he recovers. I like to think I'm pretty laid-back, so help yourselves to tea, and, again – try not to fall asleep.”

The rest of the class are laughing. Sherlock hunkers down in his seat, and scowls through the rest of the lesson.

 

XxX

 

A storm has been raging for hours now: rain pelts against the windows in heavy sheets, and wind howls shrill and deafening around Gryffindor tower, loud enough to wake the dead. Still, it doesn't stop Greg from snoring quite happily, nor the rest of the boys in the dorm from joining him. John curses the January weather. Twisting over onto his side for the millionth time, John pushes a hand up underneath his pillow to touch the bundle of soft wool hidden there. His fingers close around the scarf, thumb rubbing across it lightly. He doesn't dare leave it in plain sight when he sleeps, wrapped around a bedpost like Greg's, or half-hanging out of his trunk. Another student won't have to recognise the Holmes family crest to appreciate just how beautiful the scarf is, how warm and delicately made, and John won't risk it being stolen. No one's ever given him something like this before. No one's ever considered him a part of the family. Smiling to himself in the darkness, John thinks of how much he used to envy other people and their perfectly boring, ordinary muggle families, and can't remember why he ever did.

 

XxX

 

“Have half of mine.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Just _half_ a slice, Sherlock.” The Ravenclaw hunches over his book, face pinched in a frown of concentration. Receiving no reply, John gives up; he pulls his plate back with a sigh and a Look that he shares with Greg across the table. Sherlock won’t be eating breakfast today.

John’s come to notice Sherlock’s unusual eating habits over the years – they all have. But after watching him go without food and sleep for the three days it took them to solve their last case (a cut-and-dried blackmailing with some old family rivalry thrown in for good measure), John is determined to put his foot down.

Even if Sherlock is equally set on being a stubborn arse about it.

Beside Greg, Mike is wolfing down his second round of toast and jam, while Molly feeds Toby bits of bacon from her plate and coos at the furball in her lap. Greg watches her almost fixedly, and the soft look on his face is almost enough to make John gag.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock addresses the pages of his book,

“Do you really have to be so lovestruck at the breakfast table?” Greg blushes all the way up to his hair, glaring at him even as John gives him a _not good_ kick under the table. But Molly, sweet girl that she is, is too busy to notice, and completely misunderstands.

“Oh, I think somebody’s jealous!” she murmurs to Toby, in far too high a tone. The look of startled disgust upon Sherlock’s face is not seen. “It’s not your fault you’re such a gorgeous kitty, is it boy? Is it?”

“Well, his owner sets the bar _very_ high.”

The voice comes slithering out of nowhere, John’s head shooting up, Molly squeaking in surprise. Mike immediately chokes on his toast.

Jim’s hands are pushed into his pockets, face lit up in his most charming of smiles. He has, as always, not a single slick hair out of place. John feels his insides contract in a knot of pure, cold dread. Those lifeless eyes are glimmering, a look meant to charm, and John doesn’t doubt that it would, were he not so aware of the emptiness beneath.

With a flash of teeth that makes Molly blush, Jim sinks gracefully into the empty seat beside her. John looks to his left: Sherlock has gone very, very still.

But it’s not them who Jim has come to torment, it seems.

He extends a hand and says, smoothly, “Jim Moriarty. Does a lovely thing like you have a name?” Molly giggles, scarlet now, and stammers,

“I’m Molly. H-Hooper –” Jim has taken the hand she offered and pressed it to his mouth. Molly looks as though she might swoon.

Greg is positively murderous, grip white-knuckled on his cutlery.

“At your service, Miss Hooper,” Jim purrs. Looking down at Toby, who is all but growling in his direction, he adds, “And yours.” Toby hisses in reply. John has never been so proud of a cat, nor seen someone fantasise about lynching one the way Jim is now. “Well,” says the Slytherin with another false smile, “I hope I see you around.” And then he’s winking and slithering away again, leaving minor destruction in his wake.

Mike is still choking.

Somehow finding his voice, John mutters,

“Uh. Greg?” Greg drops his fork with a clatter, and begins to slap Mike hard upon the back, until the offending bit of toast is dislodged. Oblivious, Molly clutches Toby to her chest and sighs,

“Wasn’t he just so _handsome_?” Greg bites down on the inside of his cheek, grumbling something unintelligible but obviously very rude. Molly ignores him. “And how about you, Toby? You’ve made a new friend!”

Sherlock scoffs, opens his mouth to tell her just how Jim really feels about cats, and promptly aborts his attempt when John kicks him again. The other boy is looking at him with confusion, and no small shred of concern in his gaze.

Jim wants to play another game.

XxX

 

Pink-cheeked from the cold, John fights his way up from the greenhouses with his fellow Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs as best he can, falling over one another in the snow. Sure, they could clear it magically – but where would the fun be in that?

Exhaling a frost of breath, he laughs as Greg hurls a snowball at Mike, catching him right on the arse and startling him into an undignified yelp. John’s scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck, up over his tingling ears, tucked into the front of his winter cloak; for the first time since he can remember, John thinks he may escape a January chest infection. He’s toasty warm thanks to Mrs Holmes’ knitting.

Another snowball flies out from behind a nearby tree, smacking Greg in the face. The fight kicks off before he’s even finished brushing snow out of his eyebrows. John is more than content just to watch, roaring in laughter as Mike targets another boy from their dormitory, only to take another hit on the rear. That is, until he becomes aware of a new presence beside him, and looks up into the expressionless face of Sherlock’s brother.

“John,” he says. “Glad to see you are well.” Something about Mycroft makes John uneasy, makes him feel like he’s being read, inside-out and back-to-front. And people think Sherlock is intense.

“Mycroft,” he replies with a nod, and because John isn’t in the mood to speak in riddles today, he adds, “What are you doing here?”

It could be a trick of the light, but for a moment the edge of Mycroft’s mouth seems to twitch. The Slytherin looks John up and down, laces gloved fingers together.

“Ministry business,” he announces by way of reply. “Just checking in.” Then, “I’m surprised that your involvement with Sherlock has lasted this long. I’ve never known my little brother to become so attached.” Warily, John shifts from foot to foot, clutching his textbooks closer to his chest. Speaking with Mycroft makes him nervous. Especially when it’s about Sherlock. Especially about their friendship.

“He’s not attached,” John mumbles. “He gets on fine without me. Just needs me to hold some things now and then.”

“I beg to differ.” Mycroft raises a hand to his throat, and pulls aside his cloak to reveal a sliver of navy wool. “Why else would you be wearing a Holmes family scarf?”

There’s a look in his eyes that makes John’s face heat, and jut out his chin defensively.

“It was a gift,” he says. “From your mother, actually.”

“Mummy?” Mycroft snorts in an impossibly delicate manner. “Our mother is a magical genius, Mister Watson, but she falls at the hurdle of the arts.” John’s forehead creases.

“In English, please?”

There it is again, that twitch of Mycroft’s mouth.

“Mummy cannot knit. Magically or otherwise.”

“What?”

“Our mother is one of the most gifted witches of her age,” Mycroft says, sounding as smug as always. “She is a noted scholar in the magical arts. And yet the knitting charm is one she has never been able to master. It’s something of a running joke in our family.”

John blinks at him, digesting this new information. He doesn’t doubt that Mycroft is telling the truth; the boy may stick his nose in places it doesn’t belong, but he’s not a liar. Not when it comes to Sherlock, anyway. John’s lips part as the gravity of understanding dawns on him.

“Oh,” he breathes. Mycroft nods once, raises an eyebrow.

“Quite,” he says, and as quickly as he appeared he continues, “Good day, John,” and, turning on his heel, walks away.

 

XxX

 

“Hollie was sick in Charms today.” John watches Sherlock carefully, whose eye is pressed to his microscope and scrutinising a slide of doxy venom. It’s nearly midnight, and John has Quidditch practice early tomorrow morning – he really should go to bed. Should, could. But won’t. Not when Sherlock has an experiment on, and someone needs to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself (doxy venom, Sherlock suspects, is the culprit behind a seventh year’s sudden vomiting at the strike of three o’clock every afternoon, and John won’t put it past him to try it on himself).

Humming under his breath, Sherlock flips over the slide.

“So I heard,” he says. “Quite badly indeed. Next slide.” John obediently passes him the next one, chewing on his lip.

“You think it might be a case?” he asks. He thinks of the little red-haired Hufflepuff girl in his class, the way she’d shrieked and fitted, flailing clenched fists at monsters that weren’t there. Flitwick had personally escorted her to the hospital wing; or rather, levitated her unconscious form there.

Sherlock shakes his head without looking up.

“Doubtful.” This slide contains a small drop of venom mixed with pumpkin juice, and is vivid green in colour. Not the combination he is looking for. Sherlock sets to one side, and holds out his hand for another. Once John presses it into his fingers, he explains, “Hollie is not the brightest of witches at the best of times. Her previous class was Potions, where they were brewing an antidote for inflammation of the gallbladder.”

He hums again. Doxy venom, it seems, turns an alarming shade of yellow when mixed with butterbeer. Another slide is chosen.

“And?” presses John, not following, and he knows Sherlock’s going to sigh before he even does so.

“ _And_ , John,” the Ravenclaw replies, sounding put out, “Ingestion of that particular potion can cause violent hallucinations in someone whose gallbladder is fully functional. It also smells just like sherbet lemons, making it something of a temptation, though the taste leaves much to be desired.”

“Oh.” John wilts a little, disappointed. It’s not often that he spots a potential case before Sherlock does, and this time, well – he’d been sure he was onto one. No such luck. But then: “Hang on. Who could’ve _possibly_ asked you to investigate gallbladders?”

 

XxX

 

Sherlock finally has a class in which his teacher is not afraid to call on him. Professor Frankland actually seems to enjoy listening to his answers, which are sometimes brain-numbingly complex and other times so blunt they border on insolence. But Frankland takes it all in stride, and Sherlock cannot help but preen.

John hates it. Not because Sherlock is being praised, no: he’s brilliant, _more_ than brilliant, and he deserves to know that. No, it’s Frankland that John has come to despise, for somehow bringing out that smug grin that Sherlock has only ever reserved for him, and him alone.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d say he was jealous.

Glaring down at the untouched cup of tea in his hands, he tries to ignore Frankland’s droning on about their latest subject – ill omens and their respective messages – and decides this is all a load of bollocks.

Very much so.

 

XxX

 

They hadn’t been counting on weather like this.

Yesterday’s final practice session had taken place in warm, bright sunshine under a clear blue sky: near-perfect flying conditions. After three hours of fairly impressive play, the Gryffindor Quidditch team had at least begun to feel less daunted by their match against Slytherin. They were an imposing team to face on any given day, with their merciless tractors and deliberately rough interpretation of the sport. But this was the first time Gryffindor will face their new line-up, and that, if you ask John, made things decidedly worse. There were two new Chasers to contend with, and a new second Beater he’s heard, as if Sebastian Moran isn’t vicious enough.

The Gryffindors were already at a disadvantage before they even set foot on the field. And John can’t help but think that this weather might have sealed their fate.

Rain streams off his goggles, soaks his robes and robs him of any aerodynamic he may have had. The wind threatens to knock him off his broom entirely, howls so deafening that he can no longer hear Dimmock barking orders from the goal-hoops. Distantly he can make out Janine’s commentary, soft lilt lost in her bid to be heard, shouting over rolls of thunder. John has the sudden thought that someone is gonna be struck by lightning sooner or later – before hurling himself into the path of a Bludger, and knocking it out of Sarah’s way. It was a close call.

Moran comes at her and she swerves to avoid a head-on collision, the Quaffle slipping out from under her arm. John hears a distraught cry go up from the Gryffindor stands as it lands in the grasp of a Slytherin Chaser. He grits his teeth at the grin on Moran’s face, the brute swinging his bat with far more enthusiasm than necessary. When it comes to playing dirty, their Captain is the worst of all.

The Chaser, a nameless pureblood whom John has seen consulting with Mycroft on several occasions, makes a dash for the Gryffindor goal-hoops. He scores before Dimmock even sees him coming, and the victorious Slytherin roar is as loud as the thunder itself. John doesn’t need visibility to feel the wave of disappointment emanating from the other stands: Slytherin are in the lead.

Somewhere out there on the pitch is Sally, moving between all the other players in the blur, whose capture of the snitch is their own conceivable chance of winning. John doesn’t hold out much hope. Sally is a formidable Seeker, especially for her age – but her opponent is a sleek, quick brunette by the name of Kate, and she has never once failed to win Slytherin a match. Ever.

And the worst part, John thinks, is that he can’t even see well enough to spot Sherlock’s face amongst the crowd.

Janine’s voice is muffled by the storm.

“And Sawyer once again gains possession of the Quaffle.” This jerks John out of his thoughts, back into the game. He dives down to where Sarah is fending off the Slytherin Chasers, intent on covering her til she can reach the goal-hoops. “Sawyer goes in for the kill, flanked by Watson and Murray, and – oh!”

A Bludger heaves directly into Sarah’s path, and only a desperate lunge and bat from John saves her from far worse than a bad concussion.

“What a _dirty_ – I mean skilful, professor – tactic from Morstan, just…unbelievable!”

Morstan, Mary, is the new petite, blonde Slytherin Beater. Her hair is still shiny, and her smile is still sweet. She grins brightly at John, eyes obscured by her goggles.

“Sawyer scores! Ten points to Gryffindor!” The stands erupt. In the corner of his eye, John sees Sally drop into a sudden nose-dive. She’s seen the snitch. “And here we go! Donovan’s spotted the golden snitch – could this be a late turnaround for the lions?! Let’s hope so – I _am_ being neutral, professor, honest – Slytherin in possession – and Anderson takes the Quaffle!”

Phillip intercepts a pass, the ball flying right into his hands to thunderous Gryffindor cheers. He may be a pain in the arse sometimes, but right now the fourth-year is barrelling toward the goal-hoops, and he might as well be Christ reincarnate.

That’s when it happens.

A flash of lightning and they all see Greg freeze mid-flight, before crumpling in on himself, as though he’s managed to get clipped by a Bludger on the back of the head (again). But he can’t possibly have, because one of the Bludgers is harassing Dimmock, and Bill has just knocked the other one toward Moran’s smug face. That, and Greg was hovering by the Slytherin hoops, several feet away from any of the other players.

There is nothing near him, and no one to grab his prone form as it slips, and falls from his broom altogether.

The crowds explode into chaos, scattered screaming above shocked gasps. In the Gryffindor stands, Molly shrieks so loud that it makes Sherlock’s ear whistle, even as he jumps to his feet.

John acts as quickly as he can; he closes the distance between himself and Greg, snagging his friend by the robes, and he’s certain he has him, only needs to pull him up onto the front of his broom, which he’s gonna need Bill’s help for because Greg is _bloody heavy_ – until something big and fast slams into the bristles of his broom with tremendous force, and pitches him, grasp slipping, clean over the edge.

John’s heart stops. His goggles slip and the rain is in his eyes, panic in his throat. His wand is back in the dormitory, the screams of the watching students lost in the whoosh of air, and all he can do is clutch Greg’s sleeve and squeeze his eyes shut and hope, desperately, that Sherlock will look away as the ground rushes up to meet them.

But Sherlock cannot look away. He’d moved the movement Greg fell, but watching John fall with him has sent Sherlock into a desperate sprint, down the stairs and out of the stands to find a clear aim, tearing his wand from his robes. His magic lights up the sky before any words can leave his mouth.

John and Greg come to an abrupt halt mid-air.

And then, slowly, continue their descent.

 

XxX

 

“You saved me.”

“Really John, there’s no need to keep repeating it.”

“You saved us both.”

“For goodness’ sake…”

The hospital wing is empty of visitors at this time of evening, their friends having drifted off to bed with solemn requests to be informed as soon as Greg wakes. Madam Pomfrey lets John and Sherlock stay a little while: she owes the Ravenclaw a small favour.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs, face thrown into sharp relief by the flickering candlelight. “It’s just…no one’s ever done that before.” He looks exhausted, decades added to him by the events of today. He’s still in his Quidditch robes perched on the edge of the bed. “No one’s ever wanted to.”

Beside him, Sherlock somehow lounges in the one straight-backed chair provided to them. He watches John closely, remains silent, digesting this new bit of information. It makes his belly twist in a wholly unpleasant way.

John does not often admit to his pain. Especially not pain that he’s yet to admit to himself.

The Gryffindor is pale and drained, his blue eyes far away. Sherlock dislikes it immensely.

“Oh, shit…” comes a low groan, and beneath the bedcovers Greg stirs, pallid and clammy. John leans forward.

“It’s alright, mate,” he says with the gentle firmness of a natural healer. “You’re in the hospital wing. Try not to move.” He puts a careful handle on the boy’s chest, and Greg at last opens dark, bloodshot eyes.

“John? Sherlock?” The Ravenclaw nods, fingertips pressed together at his mouth.

“Don’t fidget, George.” John rolls his eyes. Greg doesn’t even seem to notice. He exhales sharply, relaxing back against the pillows. He’s shaking.

“What happened?” he asks John.

“You were hexed,” Sherlock answers for him, knowing John will not mind. “No serious injuries, save for your arm.”

Only now does Greg notice the sling holding his right arm secure to his chest, and the fact that he can barely feel it.

“Point of contact,” Sherlock explains. “It may take some time for your body to sufficiently recover.”

“How long?”

“It was a bloody strong hex,” John tells him, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the other two students in the wing. “Knocked you clean off your broom. Even Madam Pomfrey’s not sure how long it’ll take.” Greg deflates, disappointment flooding his tired features. Whispering, as if doing so will make it less real, he asks,

“Am I done for the season?” John’s lips press together.

“Maybe, mate.”

 

It’s a terrible blow. Greg loves Quidditch as much as John does, if not even more.

 

They give him a few moments, ignore the growing shine in his eyes. Eventually, Sherlock can endure the silence no longer.

“What do you remember?” he asks, and John can feel the cogs of his superior brain ticking over. “Did you see anything?”

Greg gives a miserable shake of his head. “Nothing. Last I remember, Donovan went for the snitch.” He looks up at John. “Did she get it?”

“Sally froze when she saw you fall? We all did. Kate got there first.” The curse Greg lets out would make even Bill blush. “We’re going to find who did this,” John says. “Sherlock already…well, he’s working on it.”

It doesn’t matter; Greg looks positively awful, and John’s reassurances do nothing. But then Sherlock speaks.

“Molly will visit you tomorrow. About lunchtime.” Something sparks in Greg’s eyes. He visibly tunes back in.

“She will?” Sherlock nods.

“She’ll bring a chocolate frog. She knows you collect the cards.” Then, as an afterthought, “Poor girl was beside herself, crying over you like that.” John stares at him. In bed, Greg’s mouth slowly curves into a grin. He runs a hand through his hair, licks at dry lips and fusses with every piece of lint on his clothing.

Sherlock meets John’s gaze, the edge of his lips tugging upward.

 

John smiles.

 

 

XxX

 

Jim is not alone: a few first years are sitting in the corner, heads down and murmuring quietly to each other. Wilkes and Moran are lurking in the shadows. John catches Wilkes' eye – doesn’t the arse know where his _own_ common room is? – and the sneer he receives makes John's fist clench, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Get out." Wilkes breaks eye contact, and John's head whips round. The words are soft, curling almost gently on the air even as they leave Jim's lips. For a moment John bristles, opens his mouth to retort – then he looks to Sherlock, whose gaze is fixed on the three startled first years in across the room, and realises who Jim's order was really meant for.

The boys look up sharply at the sound of Jim's voice, conversation halting abruptly. They exchange terrified glances. John feels something like pity twist in his stomach as one of the boys, a gangly redhead with bad acne, opens his mouth.

“But…” is all he says, before he seems to think better of himself and goes silent, but it’s too late: without so much as opening his eyes, Jim raises one delicate hand and snaps his fingers.

The redhead’s robes go up in flames.

All three of them shriek in horror, drowning out Moran and Wilkes’ laughter. Wand completely forgotten, the boy slaps desperately at his burning clothes and howls, tries to smother the fire with his hands.

Sherlock flicks his wand, and the flames are extinguished with a hiss. The first years don’t need to be told again; they stumble, petrified, toward the Slytherin dormitories.

Finally deigning to give a response, Jim looks up at Sherlock, lounging like a King in his seat.

 

“Sherlock, _darling_ ,” he all but purrs. “I’m flattered that you recognise my work, truly I am.”

“So it _was_ you, then?” Sherlock’s voice is cold and hard, tension radiating off him in waves. John hates this. He hates every moment they have to spend in this foul git’s company, and the way it always seems to turn Sherlock to stone.

“I _thoroughly_ enjoyed it,” Jim answers, grinning widely. “Poor John. Were you feeling left out?” John’s fists are balled at his sides, picturing just how smug Jim would look with a bloody nose. The Slytherin casually inspects his fingernails, flashes a coy smile. “You did ruin my fun though, Sherlock, catching them like that. They would have made such a pretty mess.”

“Whatever it is you’re doing, Jim – _stop it_.”

“Oh, my dear. Are you afraid of little old me?”

“Come along, John.” Sherlock wheels round, and John doesn’t need anything else: he’s already heading for the exit, body so rigid he feels he might break something.

“I’m not really a bad egg, y’know,” Jim calls after them, raising his voice as Sherlock wrenches open the porthole. “But then, you know all about those, don’t you Sherlock?!”

 

XxX

 

“ _Now_.” Greg startles back to the land of the living, chin propped up in his hand. John empathises with him completely. “Can anyone tell me what _this_ is?”

Frankland unfurls a scroll of parchment, and holds it up to the collective gasps of the class. John thinks he might follow Greg’s lead and sneak a nap.

The illustration Frankland holds is beautifully detailed: the huge, hulking mass of some evil creature, inky fur in parts matted and tangled, paws the size of dinner plates and claws like razorblades. The monster glares out from the page with gleaming yellow eyes, and John supposes it was a good thing the artist did not bring the portrait to life, judging by the reaction of his peers. He, himself, is less than impressed.

“Anyone?” Frankland looks round at the gathering of clueless, awestruck faces, and sees no answer among them. “Very well. Master Holmes –” Sherlock looks up from where he has been blankly staring into space. “Enlighten us?”

John is paying attention now, though not to their professor. It’s Sherlock he watches, his pale face utterly devoid of emotion. His cheekbones seem more prominent than usual, the circles under his eyes a little darker. The boy hasn’t been right for days now, far away somewhere in his head – and it’s not the vacant look he wears when he’s in his mind castle. John knows that look very well, and this is not it.

He also knows it’s because of what Jim said, that night in the Slytherin common room.

 

_You know all about those, don't you Sherlock?_

Jim hit a nerve. Deep. And John won’t pretend to understand how, or what, or why it’s somehow relevant to what’s been going on at Hogwarts. But he won’t let it eat Sherlock up. He doesn’t want to push but he’ll have to say _something_ , if this carries on.

“That’s the Grim,” Sherlock explains without hesitation, and even his voice lacks its usual self-assuredness. “A spectre, specifically, that is believed to haunt churchyards and appear to unsuspecting, unfortunate souls. It is a giant, black hound, and the darkest omen of all – the omen of death.”

The classroom lapses into silence as Frankland, clearly impressed, smiles his approval. It takes a moment for anyone to notice the quiet gasps coming from the back.

Shy little Henry Knight is hyperventilating, his face turned ashen, blotched with tears. Frankland’s face falls.

“My goodness, Henry, what’s the matter?” The boy’s eyes are bulging. He looks like he might pass out.

“The Grim,” Henry sobs, shaking hard enough to make his desk vibrate. “My father saw it. He saw it, then he got sick –” A strangled, terrified whimper escapes him, and Louise from the next desk over puts an arm around his shoulders.

“He saw _the Grim_ ,” he wails, and then he can’t say anymore, for he can’t get enough breath to form the words.

 

 

XxX

 

The Room of Requirement is quiet tonight. There is no laughter, no fixing or smoking of experiments upon the table. The only sound is Sherlock’s shallow breathing, and the crackle of fire in the hearth they sit before. There are armchairs here tonight, comfortable and warm. John was not the one to request them.

“It took our parents a long time to have children.” Sherlock’s voice is hushed, barely audible. His knees are hugged to his chest, curled in on himself on one of the chairs, and his silvery eyes gaze hollowly into the flames. “When Sigerson was born, they treasured completely. He was all they’d been waiting for.”

Sherlock does not expect John to know the name. Very few people do, even among those raised in the wizarding world. Mostly purebloods, of course, though it’s never spoken of in public circles. They take silent pleasure in the shame of other families.

“It became clear early on that he was exceptionally gifted. Even without a wand his capacity for magic was astounding. By the time Mycroft came along, Sigerson was the first child in centuries to receive early acceptance to Hogwarts.”

Opposite him, John tries not to fidget in his seat. He could not look away from Sherlock if he wanted to. Tongue rolling out to wet his lip, John asks,

“How old was he?”

“Nine.” A sharp intake of breath.

“That young?”

“His magic was far too powerful for his age. He had to learn to control his abilities.” Sherlock releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, goosebumps rising on his arms. “He succeeded very quickly, but his abilities only continued to grow. Problems soon became apparent.”

“Sherlock –” John has to say it, at least once. “You don’t have to –”

“No,” the Ravenclaw interrupts him firmly. “I want you to know. You need to know.” Sherlock closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Sigerson didn’t mix well with the other children. Never had done, but it was more obvious now. He bullied his peers viciously, frightened them into submission. Especially the muggleborns. He despised them, deeply. Saw them as inferior.

No one is sure exactly when he became interested in dark magic. Sigerson was very careful. It was a long time before anybody realised what he was, and by then the muggleborns had already started to go missing.”

A sudden chill races up John’s spine, his knuckles white, fists clenched in his lap. The hair is standing up on the back of his neck.

“How old were you?” he whispers, and it comes out hoarse.

“Three.” Sherlock’s voice almost breaks. “Too young. Mycroft won’t tell me the details, and I don’t want him to.” He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, resists the urge to hide his face in his knees. “Not that it matters. I already remember too much.

Sigerson stayed on at Hogwarts for a few extra years. There was talk of becoming a professor, and he was made an understudy to Dumbledore himself. Mummy and Daddy were very proud. By this time I was also exceeding expectations developmentally. Mycroft was gifted, undeniably so, but everyone believed I was the next prodigy. They hoped I would follow in Sigerson’s footsteps, make the family proud.”

John watches a muscle jump in Sherlock’s jaw; his teeth are clenched so tightly that the Gryffindor worries they will break.

“He doted on me,” Sherlock continues, softer now. “Took me everywhere he went, told me I would be one of the greats, just like him. We were one and the same, he said, better than brothers. I still have nightmares.”

“What did he do, Sherlock?”

“When the Aurors came for him, he tried to take me. It was Mycroft who saved us all – one of the few times I have ever seen him lose control of his magic. He never speaks of it. In the end, Sigerson took his own life, and those of half the village.”

 

Sherlock opens his eyes. John is deathly silent.

So this is Sherlock’s boggart, then. This is the cause of his pain.

John understands, now, why the boy pushes people away. Why he rejects affection, why he puts up so many walls. How can love be the most powerful form of magic when it couldn’t even save his brother?

John tastes copper in his mouth; he’s bitten his lip hard enough to make it bleed.

Sherlock stares into the fire. He cannot look at John, can’t bear to watch the only friend he’s ever had decide to leave. Telling John had never been part of the plan. But there are times, more often than not lately, that Sherlock will catch the Gryffindor watching him with a look in his eyes that Sherlock can’t place. Whatever it is, it makes his stomach somersault every time. It’s too soft, too bright, and utterly, utterly undeserved.

“You are not like him,” John whispers, and Sherlock looks up before he knows what he’s doing. “You will _never_ be like him.”

“ _John_ …” He looks absolutely thunderous, eyes dark and full of unnameable emotion. His left hand is trembling. “John, it’s a matter of genetics. It’s inevitable –”

“ _Fuck_ genetics.”

John’s voice is tight, breath coming fast and harsh through his nose. Sherlock is at once intrigued, and surprised. And somewhat afraid. He blinks, peers at his friend through a mess of curls. Waits.

It takes John a moment to calm down enough to get the words out.

“Sometimes, I look in the mirror and think that I’m going to become my dad.”

“No.” Sherlock’s response is immediate. “No, John – never –”

“Exactly. I am not my father, Sherlock.” John’s face softens. “And you are not your brother.”

 

They look at each other for the longest time, until the fire flickers and begins to die.

At last, Sherlock says wryly, “Mycroft will be pleased about that.”

John replies, “Mycroft is a huge pain in the arse.”

 

Sherlock’s laughter echoes off the walls.

 

 

XxX

 

Irene Adler lounges against the windowsill, examining her nails with a sharp eye. She is slim and beautiful, though not particularly tall. It doesn’t matter. She has eyelashes like feather dusters and bone structure that could cut steel. She is the envy of all who meet her: boys, girls, and everyone else.

Now, Irene’s reputation has summoned her to an empty classroom on the third floor.

“Let me get this straight, Jim,” she says, looking up at the Slytherin standing before her. She recognises Moran beside him, along with another sour-faced boy. “You want me to seduce that lovely Irish girl, just to get at Sherlock Holmes?” Her red lips curve into a smile. “I must say, it sounds rather absurd.”

Something flashes in Jim’s eyes. She wonders if perhaps she took it too far.

“Sherlock has a weak spot,” Jim drawls at last, dark eyes cold.

“You want to break him.”

“It’s not that simpering Hufflepuff girl, and not the Quidditch player.” Irene reaches up, brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“What about the Watson boy?” she asks after a moment. “They seem _very_ close.”

Jim scowls, as if telling her she will regret doubting his ability.

“The mudblood made a deal with the fat brother in second year,” he says. “He keeps Watson’s alcoholic father under control in exchange for the boy’s continued ‘friendship’ with Sherlock.”

“Are you sure?”

“Irene. _My dear_.” Jim’s voice is dangerously gentle. “I have eyes and ears in every inch of this castle. Sherlock Holmes does not move or speak, does not _breathe_ without my knowledge.” He moves forward quite unexpectedly, and Irene finds herself trapped against the window. “Now, do we have a deal?”

Irene swallows, hands clasping the sill behind her back. She forces herself to meet Jim’s eyes.

“And what do I get out of this?” she asks. “What will you do for me in return?”

“I’ll let you live.”

 

XxX

 

“But _John_ –”                                                                                                    

“ _No_ , Sherlock, just – drop it!” John all but throws his books down on the desk, stone-faced and angry. It’s their first of two Divination classes today, and that’s already enough to put John in a foul mood. He doesn’t need Sherlock being a massive prat as well.

The Ravenclaw sighs heavily, before wandering off somewhere.

John tells himself he doesn’t give a damn. He turns roughly to the middle of _Ill Omens and Their Meanings_ , scowling down at the familiar picture of the Grim. They’ve been studying this stupid dog forever, and John is growing sick of it.

 _Omen of death my arse_.

A soft thunk makes him look up. Sherlock has set down a steaming cup of tea on the table, the tips of his ears flushed pink.

“I made you tea,” he mutters. John feels his anger reduce to a simmer, temper cooling somewhat as he fights to keep his lips pursed. He knows an apology when he hears one.

“And?”

“ _And_ …” Sherlock sighs again, as if terribly put out. “I solemnly swear not to study the effects of itching powder on the first years.

“Sherlock…”

“Fine. _Any_ years.” Sherlock flops down dramatically into his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “Happy now?”

John nods once, and takes a sip of his tea.

 

XxX

 

The Irish girl spends an awful lot of time in the library.

Irene figures it’s not that surprising – the girl’s a Ravenclaw, after all. But Irene’s never understood these bookworm types, poring over texts any hour of the day and night. Surely there are better ways to glean information, more efficient uses of one’s time. She’s always found a little manipulation to be very, very effective. Much more so than any old bit of paper.

Then again, maybe that’s just the Slytherin in her talking.

Peering over the top of some inane journal, Irene watches Janine dutifully organising her colour-coordinated notes, muttering to herself under her breath. Lord only knows what mundane thing she’s writing. Irene’s glad she doesn’t have to work for her grades – not while there are plenty of weak-willed, lovestruck students willing to do it for her. She deems an essay for a kiss to be a more than reasonable exchange.

Janine gets up, hefts a huge leather-bound tome into her arms, and goes to return it to its spot. The moment she is out of sight Irene drops the book, and follows quietly after her.

Irene has been giving this a lot of thought since Jim’s tantrum. Catching the girl’s attention should be easy enough: Jim seemed certain of her attraction to other girls, and Irene has worn her deepest crimson lipstick for the special occasion. Her dark hair is curled and pinned back in a delicate knot, her perfume noticeable but not overwhelming. No, Irene’s confident she can at least get this halfblood on her hook.

It’s keeping her there long enough to satisfy Jim that’s the problem.

Irene slinks through the bookshelves until she spots her mark, seemingly torn between two thick volumes on ancient rune sand hieroglyphs. Perfect. With one last fuss of her hair, Irene turns the corner.

Janine is gone.

The entire aisle is empty. Not a single book has been touched. Irene frowns.

“What on earth –”

“I could ask you the same question.” Irene spins round. Janine’s mouth is pressed into a tight line, hands on her hips. Something flashes in her wild eyes. The Slytherin takes her in, every line she’d prepared immediately forgotten. “Care to explain why you’ve been following me around?” Janine asks, and it’s not a question.

Irene knows, without a doubt, that Jim’s plan has been rumbled. She smiles wryly anyway.

“My, aren’t you an interesting one?”

 

 

XxX

 

It’s Mike who tells them, one afternoon at lunch. He’s just come back from visiting Greg, and no sooner has he sat down than the words are out of his mouth.

“Henry’s in the hospital wing.” John looks up from his Potions textbook, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“Who?”

“Henry. From your Divination class.” Mike’s round face is pinched in genuine concern, and he has to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “He’s gone completely mad.” John frowns. Sherlock is brought out of his mind castle by an elbow to the ribs. With a huff, he shoots John an impatient glare.

“What is it now?”

“Mike says Henry Knight’s lost the plot.”

“What?” Mike nods in earnest under Sherlock’s sharp gaze, glasses slipping again.

“I was sat with Greg and a couple of the professors brought him in, shouting and fighting, never knew he could make so much noise. Off his bloody rocker.”

“What’s wrong with him?” John asks, and the familiar tendril of excitement begins to take hold in his belly. There’s a possible case in here, somewhere.

“No idea,” Mike shrugs. “Madam Pomfrey had to put him out before he hurt himself.” The boy pauses a moment, forehead creasing in thought. “It sounded like…well…”

“What is it, Mike?”

“He kept…he kept yelling about some sort of monster. A hound. Reckoned it was gonna eat him or something…”

 

From the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock go very, very still.

 

XxX  


It’s past midnight. The seventh floor corridor is eerily silent, flickering torches casting shadows on the walls, the students and professors and ghosts of Hogwarts long since sleeping.

Except John Watson. He has somewhere to be.

He walks with impressive silence, aided by a simple muffling charm that Sherlock had demanded he master. It doesn’t make him invisible, however, and so John moves with utmost caution, his heart in his throat, ready to run should he be caught.

Adrenaline buzzes in his veins. He _loves_ it.

Sherlock will be waiting for him in the Room of Requirement, no doubt expecting him to be late. John doesn’t care; he knew instantly from the look in Sherlock’s eyes that he’d made some impressive deduction, and it’s been too long since their last real, exciting case. John practically vibrates with anticipation. The Game is on.

Finally, he reaches the familiar patch of wall, and completes his first stride past.

Then he hears it.

He turns on his heel and freezes, ears straining to catch the sound again. He could have sworn he heard someone breathing, a deep inhalation, a heavy sigh out. A shiver prickles up his spine and he feels, suddenly, like he’s being watched. John holds his breath.

Nothing.

That settles it, then. John tells himself he needs to stop letting Sherlock keep him up all hours, before he starts going round the bend. Paranoia is not what he needs. He moves again, and completes his second length of the wall.

And this time the sound is unmistakeable: a sharp _click-clack_ along the stone floor, and a distinct, low rumble. John stops dead. Cold sweat begins to bead at his hairline. That was most definitely _not_ in his imagination. John tightens his grip on his wand, trying to call to mind all the defensive spells he can remember, half a shield charm, the end of a hex, lost among his scattering thoughts. Against his better judgement, he calls out,

“Is someone there?”

Silence.

This was a bad idea, John thinks. He should know better than to go roaming the castle at night, not when something is putting his peers in the hospital wing. Bollocks to this – Sherlock can be pissed off in the morning. John backs up, and decides he’ll take another route back to the Gryffindor dormitories.

He has barely made it a few feet when a cold rush of air sweeps behind him, and he spins round with a startled cry. Something is there. He can hear the steady drag of its breath, smell the acrid stink of sulphur. A deep, rumbling growl rolls right through his bones.

 

 _He kept yelling about some sort of monster. A hound_.

 

 _The darkest omen of all – the omen of death_.

 

John runs.

 

The muffling charm is forgotten, and so is his wand; he couldn’t think of a spell now even if he wanted to.

John slams bodily into a solid oak door, wrenches the heavy thing open on squealing hinges, and ducks inside as it closes with a satisfying _whump_ behind him. He stumbles in his panic, collapses into a pile of buckets and mops. He’s found a broom cupboard. Clamping a hand over his mouth, John tries not to move, tries to steady his breathing.

If he stays quiet, it’ll pass him by. If he stays quiet, it might not take him.

No wonder poor Henry went bloody mad.

The tap of claws upon stone is growing louder, the smell so strong that John gags into his fingers. A shadow appears under the crack of the door, and stops.

John can barely hear for the thundering pulse in his ears, barely see for the white spots dancing in his vision. He’s going to faint.

Sherlock will have to piece the bits of him back together.

 

The cupboard door wrenches open, and John Watson prepares to die.

 

“John!” He’d know that voice anywhere, hushed or not. He opens his eyes, and there, peering down at him, is a familiar face haloed by black curls. John chokes on a breath.

“ _Sherlock?”_ The stink of sulphur has vanished. He looks past Sherlock to the corridor outside. Empty. “Sherlock –” The Ravenclaw is on his knees now, staring hard into John’s eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“Sherlock, I saw it!” John gasps out, almost sobs, and seizes the arm of Sherlock’s robes. “I saw the hound – I saw – I saw the _Grim_.” Sherlock’s face does not change. John can’t help but feel that he’s not grasping the gravity of the situation. “It’s real, it’s really real – Henry was right – Sherlock, we have to –”

 

“ _John_.” Sherlock takes his face in steady, firm hands, forces him to meet his gaze. “John, I’ve solved the case.”

 

XxX

 

The great hall is heaving, filled with laughter and noise of the students packed onto benches. It's lunch time, and most of the school is here. Greg limps up to the Gryffindor table, tired but grinning, and is welcomed by a triumphant cheer as he is ushered into a seat.

"Good to have you back," Mike beams, patting him on his uninjured shoulder.

“It's good to _be_ back,” Greg says. His arm is still in a sling and his entire body aches like a bitch but, if he's honest, he's more than ready to get back to normal.

“I thought Madam Pomfrey’d never let you outta there,” says Janine. Beside her Billy Wiggins nods in silent agreement.

“Nor did I,” Greg replies, but before he can say anything more there's a loud gasp, and Molly Hooper has somehow wriggled in between him and a third year to attach herself to his side.

“Oh, _Greg_ ,” she sighs, brown eyes wide and worried. “You're so _brave!_ Does it still hurt? You should be resting, I can't _believe_ you're out of the hospital wing!” It's the most Molly has ever said to him in one go, and Greg is transfixed by her pale hands gripping his good arm, the sweet strawberry scent of her hair as it falls in her eyes.

“Yeah, I, um – ” Greg coughs, recovers himself. “I'm fine, just, y'know. Still feel a bit rough. Hungry too. I mean...” His stomach chooses that moment to give a loud rumble, as if protesting the lack of decent food during his incarceration. Mike laughs. Molly shakes her head, giving Greg's arm a soft squeeze.

“ _So brave_ ,” she whispers again, and then her hand flies dramatically to her mouth. “Oh!” she cries, “But you're right-handed! How are you going to feed yourself?!”

“I – ”

“Nevermind, I'll do it, you deserve some pampering after what you've been through! Now what do you want to eat, there's meatloaf, and sandwiches? Oh and you must have some fruit, you need your vitamins...” Molly trails off, talking mainly to herself as she grabs a plate and fills it with this and that, seemingly a little bit of everything on the table. Smiling dazedly, Greg looks to Janine opposite him, whose eyebrows have all but disappeared into her hairline. He winks. Then, looking around,

“Where are John and Sherlock? Shouldn't they be here?” Janine snorts.

“ _Divination practice_ ,” she answers, shooting a pointed look to Billy. “ _Again_.” It takes Greg a moment.

“Oh. _Really?”_

“They keep disappearing off together for hours at a time. And I checked with Sally – there's no Divination practice class running.”

“If I had to bet,” murmurs Billy, without taking his eyes off his book, “I'd put money on the end of next year. By the Great Lake.” Mike shakes his head.

“No way will they last that long,” he says. “It'll be Christmas, under the mistletoe.” Greg laughs.

“You're such a cliché Mike. Besides, you're both wrong.”

“Oh yeah? So how do _you_ think it'll happen, genius?” Leaning forward, Greg's brows draw together as he thinks.

“It'll be loud,” he says slowly, seriously. “Bold. John'll make the first move, and you know what he's like – he's gonna let the whole school know it. I'm calling it now.” Greg slaps his hand on the table for emphasis and sits back. “Go big or go home.” The rest of the table stares at him, silent save for Molly's muttering in the background. “What?” Janine raises an eyebrow.

“And you said _Mike_ was cliché.”

 

XxX

 

John does not ask how Sherlock is so sure of Frankland’s whereabouts. No doubt the Ravenclaw has been watching his every move for weeks, if not months, in preparation for this moment.

“There wasn’t much to go on at first,” Sherlock says, marching up the staircase. “He’s very good at covering his tracks. Impressive, really.” John somehow matches him stride for stride, his heart already pounding in excitement, senses sharpened by anticipation. They barge right through a huddle of giggling first years, break apart a couple whose hands were seemingly glued together.

“So how did you piece it together?”

“I had put Hollie’s sickness down to her own incompetence, and in any other circumstances, I would expect that to be the cause of the problem. However – did you notice, while we waited for Geoff to come round from the hex, just how many other patients were in the hospital wing?” Frowning, John tries to think back.

“Uh…”

“ _Three_ , John.” Sherlock snorts, like this should have been obvious. “Hollie and two others. We both know that Madam Pomfrey does not keep students overnight unless they require a prolonged recovery period, in which case, like Gavin, evidence of injury would be obvious.”

“And?”

“ _And_ there was not a single sling, bandage or dressing on any of them. Not physical injury, then. I did some research.”

John cracks a giddy smile as they turn right onto another corridor.

“You badgered Madam Pomfrey, didn’t you?” he asks, and is not at all put off by Sherlock’s scowl. He knows Sherlock won’t dignify the question with an answer.

“I had my suspicions about the subject of their hallucinations, but I couldn’t be certain, not until Henry also became sick, and then my belief was validated: each student was hallucinating the appearance of an ill omen.”

John thinks of sharp claws and yellow eyes, and shivers, hard.

“Now, the question was how the hallucinogenic was being administered to the students without their knowledge,” Sherlock goes on. “And for that, John, your experience was the clincher.”

“It was?”

They encounter no one else on their way to the North Tower; lunch is in full swing and the seventh floor is deserted, so there is no risk of being disturbed. No chance of help either, John thinks, if this goes terribly wrong.

Sherlock knocks upon Frankland’s door with a steady hand.

“Come in!” He’s sitting at his desk, scribbling something on a sheaf of parchment. His grey hair is a mess, his robes noticeably wrinkled and unkempt, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. The shock of it leaves John speechless. Frankland looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but he smiles the moment he sees who his visitors are, the lines of his face deepening.

 

“Ah, Master Holmes!” Frankland sets down his quill. “And Master Watson – I’ve been expecting you both.” John stiffens. The hair stands up on the back of his neck, even as a fat drop of crimson lands on Frankland’s parchment.

“Professor –” Sherlock’s arm shoots out, stops John from advancing more than one step.

“No point,” he says, sharp eyes taking in the empty cup at Frankland’s elbow, the steaming kettle that hovers above the tea table. A thin rivulet of blood begins to seep from the man’s nose. “A special brew, I take it?” Frankland sits back in his chair and grins.

“Nothing gets past you, does it Holmes?”

“No. It doesn’t.” Sherlock releases John, whose wand is now clenched tightly. He’s a little disappointed that he won’t get to use it. The Ravenclaw murmurs under his breath, “Jim told him we were coming.”

“What?” John hisses. “ _How?”_

“James is very efficient at his work,” Frankland says, blood beginning to stain the front of his robes. “He’ll go far, that boy.” John thinks of dead eyes and dangerous words, and is seized by a hot flash of anger.

“Did Moriarty put you up to this?!” he demands, and Sherlock briefly considers reaching for him again. “Did he think it’d be funny?! You almost killed four students –”

“John.” Sherlock’s hand on his arm is firm, grounding. The Gryffindor breathes roughly through his nose. “It was never about that. It was about the work, wasn’t it, Professor?”

For the first time, Frankland’s smile fades. His expression clouds over, and his voice is thick when he speaks through blood.

“Knight always doubted me,” he says. “He was supposed to be my partner, and he called my research _fanatical nonsense_. Insanity! Can you imagine what we could achieve with insight into the astral plane?! The events we could control?!”

“So you poisoned him. Because he convinced the Ministry to withdraw your funding.”

“He was a terrible partner.”

“And then you started poisoning his son and your students, disguised in pots of harmless, traditional tea – ”

“Sherlock…”

“ – you tailored the formula to lie dormant until it could bond with a substantial amount of cortisol – ”

“ _Sherlock_.” The kettle drops, smashes to the floor. “Enough, now.”

 

Frankland has turned a sickly, pallid shade of grey. His chest has ceased to rise and fall, and the blood is slowly coagulating upon his skin. Sherlock’s entire being thrums in silent fury. Quietly, he grits out,

“There’s always _something_.” He kicks at the nearest table, sending a fat spider scurrying over his shoe. “Blast!” John tears his eyes away from Frankland’s body, instead watches the spider as it flees for cover under the door.

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

“Hm?” Sherlock is tight-lipped, already inspecting Frankland’s teacup with his magnifying strip.

“How come the poison took so much longer to work on Henry than it did on me?” John asks. The spider wiggles out of sight, and all of a sudden he feels much like doing the same. His stomach twists at the memory of terror, of subsonic growls and the scraping of claws. “Was it just me? Is it because I’m weak? Because I’m a coward –”

“ _No_.” That single word is so harsh it makes John start. Sherlock clears his throat, colour rising on his cheeks. Softer, he adds, “No, John, it wasn’t you. I’m afraid that I…when I made your tea…that is…”

“You what?”

“I…may have let it brew a bit too long.”

John stares at him. The Ravenclaw shifts awkwardly under his gaze, abruptly very intrigued by the state of his own fingernails.

“You mean you poisoned me without _any_ idea of the correct dose to give?” John asks.

“In a sense,” Sherlock admits, flushing harder.

“…Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?”

“Get Professor McGonagall, before I kick your arse.”

 

XxX

 

The stars are bright tonight. They glimmer and wink overhead, shine against the navy-plum ink-spill of the sky. Flat on his back in the grassy, secluded courtyard, John gazes up at them in silence. Beside him Sherlock is mapping out the constellations: Orion’s belt, canis major, Andromeda. He is grateful for the quiet; the din and ruckus of Gryffindor’s end-of-year party had been too much after the events of this afternoon. Too much noise, too many people. After a boring half an hour John had tugged him by the shirtsleeve, and suggested that they ditch.

An idea that Sherlock had wholeheartedly welcomed.

Here, away from the predictable antics of seventh-years drunk on home-brewed alcohol and first-years making themselves sick on fizzing whizzbees, everything is finally, blissfully at peace.

“That one there,” Sherlock says, pointing to a different cluster of starts, “is Perseus, the Greek mythological hero, sent to slay Medusa the Gorgon.” He speaks so low that the words are little more than a murmur, so quickly that they all but blur with his excitement. “He used Medusa’s severed head to turn the sea-monster, Cetus, to stone, rescuing Princess Andromeda from his clutches. The two later married, but that’s another story.”

Brow scrunching for merely a second, Sherlock’s gaze flits across the darkening sky above them.

“But _there_ – there’s Cepheus, Andromeda’s father. His constellation is _fascinating_ , it contains an orange hypergiant and two red supergiants, and all three are among the largest stars ever recorded – and at its core is the biggest ultramassive black hole in the known universe – _forty billion solar masses_ – ten _thousand_ times the size of the black hole in our own galaxy, John, can you imagine?!”

He is met with silence. Gaze drifting over to where the Gryffindor lies next to him, Sherlock finds that John’s eyes have closed, his chest rising and falling lightly. Sherlock immediately hushes. It is a rare occasion that he gets to see John sleeping. There’s the odd nap here and there – propped up on textbooks at the lunch table, behind particularly large cauldrons in Potions – when they’ve worked cases into the early hours, but nothing like this.

He has never seen John look so peaceful: all the premature lines of his face smoothed away, a lifetime of weariness and fear seemingly undone. There is a softness in John now that Sherlock had not known existed, and which makes him feel distinctly wobbly. His exhale is soft, tickling the rogue strands of hair across John’s forehead.

The Gryffindor seems to be growing more valuable with every case they solve, irreplaceable with each day that passes, and this knowledge makes Sherlock’s belly do all kinds of funny things.

He wonders what that means.

So absorbed is Sherlock in his thoughts that he completely misses the change in John’s breathing, and comes back to earth to find deep blue eyes boring into his. The surprise drives all the breath from him.

Quietly, voice a little rough from sleep, John murmurs,

“You didn’t have to lie about the scarf, y’know.” Sherlock’s heart stops. He darts out his tongue to wet his lip.

“John…”

“I know you made it,” John persists, his words soft. “I’m not a _complete_ idiot.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest that he’s never said such a thing, but stops short at the look on John’s face: because, of course, he has. Many times. Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut again, a distinct flush rising on his cheeks. A smile tugging at the edge of his lips, John continues,

“Do you know what makes people want to give handmade gifts?”

It’s a loaded question, one that Sherlock knows he’s not meant to answer. Still he grumbles some excuse about _not handmade_ and _appallingly difficult magic_ , until John cuts across him.

“Sentiment. That’s what.”

Sherlock’s face goes beet red. He splutters, blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears, mortified, _don’t be so ridiculous John_ ; near enough chokes on his own inhalation, _better things to do with my time_ and _silly muggle notion_.

John watches him with a steady gaze, until it looks like Sherlock is wearing himself out. Then, softly, he murmurs,

“Shut up, Sherlock,” and the Ravenclaw is immediately silenced.

He’s not sure he can describe the way John is looking at him now, with his eyes so bright and his smile so soft. There is no verb in the literary universe, no adjective in any language, living or dead that could do it justice. And he’s not sure what to make of that.

After a seemingly endless stretch of deep, gentle quiet, John nods to a not-yet-explained group of stars on the horizon.

“Tell me about that one,” he says. Sherlock obliges, happily.

“That’s The Shield,” he replies. “One of many constellations discovered by the second-century astronomer, Ptolemy…”

They lie there will into the night, long after the celebrating Gryffindors have given up and gone to bed.

And if, eventually, Sherlock feels the tentative curl of John’s little finger around his own, he compares it to the light and wonder of Orion and Andromeda, to the breath-taking magnitude of Cepheus’ ultramassive black hole – and loses all interest in the stars.

 

XxX

 

“Want some eggs?”

“Hmpf.”

“Rephrase: you’re having eggs.” John slides a generous portion of eggs on toast in front of Sherlock, whose nose is buried in _The Daily Prophet_ , and is not at all interested in breakfast. He slips a fork into the Ravenclaw’s free hand, just in case. “Everyone packed?” he asks.

There comes a murmur of affirmatives from along the table. This is the last time they’ll all be together until September and, in typical fashion, everyone is far more interested in their food than in each other. The predictability of it all makes John smile.

“I better go find Toby,” Molly says after a moment, looking worried. “I can’t leave him behind…”

“Of course not,” Greg immediately agrees around his mouthful of English breakfast, and Mike, busy savouring what he deems to be the best porridge in the world, rolls his eyes. “I’ll help you look. We’ll find him in no time!”

Molly lights up, flushing a delicate shade of pink. Greg’s been out of the sling for some time now, but it’ll be far longer before he tires of Molly’s fussing, and insistence that she cut up his food for him.

It’s quite nauseating, really.

From behind his paper, Sherlock mutters, “Check the Owlery first.” His fork-holding hand begins to absent-mindedly pick at his plate. One forkful of eggs later, and John beams.

He’s made it through another year without letting Sherlock starve to death. Lord knows the Ravenclaw may be a right prat sometimes, but they’ve had one hell of a year, and John wouldn’t change a thing. He’s going to miss the great twit. Badly.

September can’t come soon enough.

 

Across the table, Greg catches his eye, and flashes him a knowing wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I'm still here! Lingering, cursing the responsibilities of adult life that distract me from writing.
> 
> I've bumped the rating from T to M, purely because the boys' experiences are growing darker.


End file.
